


Uncrossing the Stars

by DestinyWolfe



Series: Spirit of the North [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Adorable idiots in love, Dogs, Hurt/Comfort, I am so sorry, I am taking a break from writing this series and will continue it sometime after this summer, I will resolve it all in the next part of the series I promise, Iditarod AU, Multi, Sled Dog Racing AU, Warning: cliffhanger ending, lots and lots of dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:10:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3099413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestinyWolfe/pseuds/DestinyWolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Steve Rogers was twenty-one, his best friend and racing companion Bucky Barnes fell to his death during a 200-mile race that would have qualified them for the Iditarod, a 1,049 mile dog sled race from Anchorage to Nome, Alaska.  Ever since they met as kids, it had been their dream to run what many have called the 'Last Great Race,' and after Bucky's death, Steve is more determined than ever to achieve that goal.</p><p>After years of rigorous training and preparation, he and his team, made up of Russian racing expert Natasha Romanov and north Alaskan resident Sam Wilson, are ready at last.  But although things start out smoothly enough, winning the race soon becomes the least of Steve's worries as a racer known as the Winter Soldier enters the game with a deadly mission: bring a biological weapon to Nome, where a dangerous secret organization awaits his arrival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preparations

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic that takes place in the MCU, and my first time writing any of these characters, so I sincerely apologize for any errors I make in their characterizations. I'm doing this for fun, and I don't own any of the characters from the Captain America movies. I am not going to be making any money from this work. I just love these characters to death, and couldn't help myself when my muse hit me on the head with a skillet and told me to act on a particularly troublesome plot bunny that's been running rampant through my mind for a while now. xD
> 
> Aaaanyway, without further ado, here is the first chapter! ^)^ I really hope that you enjoy reading it even half as much as I enjoy writing it! <3

“Temp’s back down to fifteen under,” Sam’s voice was crisper than the fresh snow on the dogs’ kennels, the sound unhindered by wind or distance. “Just hope the truck’ll start when we need it.” He shivered, tucking his chin into his collar and pulling his fur-lined hood down over his forehead. “How’s the sled coming? Natasha said she’ll be here in about…” he glanced at his watch, “five or ten, and you know how she gets when we’re off schedule.”

Steve straightened up and dusted white powder off his knees, holding one glove in his teeth as he struggled to screw in the last piece of the sled with frozen fingers. “There, ‘s done.” Taking a step back, he stuffed his pale and stiff hand back into the glove, his blue eyes taking in the sight before him. “Looks good, right?”

Sam shrugged, cocking one eyebrow and flashing a smile. “I dunno, man. I’ve never actually run one of these races. I’m just here for moral support.”

Steve returned the smile, although he was sure it wasn’t visible beneath the thick scarf wrapped around the bottom half of his face. “I’m gonna need as much of that as I can get.”

The distant sound of tires skidding on gravelly ice interrupted the relative stillness of the frigid Alaskan afternoon, announcing the arrival of the final member of Steve’s support team. The unfamiliar rumble of the vehicle’s engine sent the dogs into a frenzy, many of them launching out of their shelters and throwing themselves furiously against their chains. Steve’s lead dog, Desna, slammed into her collar with such enthusiasm that she lost her balance completely and landed on her back in the fresh snow.

Within moments of the initial disturbance, a dark grey Ford four-wheeler pulled into the packed snow parking lot behind the kennel, its roaring engine cutting out with a sound like a Grizzly bear being strangled.

“Natasha!” Sam was almost as enthusiastic as the dogs, obviously eager to greet the fiery red-headed Russian who had offered to act as Steve’s quality assurance for the upcoming race. Although Steve had known Natasha for going on two years, she and Sam had only met a couple of times over the past two months, and most of their time together had been spent freezing to death in the kennels and garage. Although misery shared was one way to develop a bond, Steve was 90% sure that they would have gotten along just as well had they met in any other circumstances.

Natasha was decked out in her most fearsome winter apparel, only her eyes visible behind a thick balaclava and an even thicker scarf. Her shape was completely obscured by the multiple layers of down and polyester clinging to her body, and her gloved hands looked like they’d been drawn by a bad cartoonist—fingerless and puffy, more like black blobs than actual hands. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, and Steve could hear the smirk in her words, “the traffic was bad.”

“I hear the moose are slow this time of year,” Sam replied, his smile widening as he reached Natasha and wrapped one arm around her in an awkwardly one-sided hug. Although Natasha obviously liked Sam, and Steve would even go as far as to call them friends by now, she had never been the hugging type. Not that it ever stopped Sam. “Takes longer to get ‘em off the road.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, moving past Sam toward Steve and the sled. “No, actually my idiot boyfriend was trying to _cook,_ ” she lifted her fingers to form quotes around the last word, “and almost caught the kitchen on fire. I told him to stick to killing things from now on.”

Steve laughed, shaking his head as he stepped back to let Natasha inspect his handiwork. “Poor Clint. He was probably just trying to impress you, you know.”

“Oh, he wasn’t cooking for _me,_ ” Natasha crouched beside the sled’s left runner, dragging her gloved palm across it to check for weak places or breaks. “He thought I’d already left the house.”

Sam grinned, sticking his hands in his oversized pockets as he watched Natasha’s well-trained fingers and eyes skim over the sled’s slender frame. “Hey, if he gets on your nerves too much, my door’s always open.”

“That’s sweet,” she replied, “but if I leave him alone for more than two days I’ll be finding dirty socks and gloves stuffed into the vents for weeks. Not to mention that time he turned the living room into an archery range and put a hole in our TV. So much for his promise to keep his friends out of my house.”

“And by “friends” do you mean Tony and Thor?” Steve asked. “I thought they were in Quebec for the winter?”

“Yes, and yes,” Natasha straightened up, giving the sled a look of satisfaction. “This was back in October. You’re good to go, by the way. This is as good as you’re gonna get.”

“Quebec?” Sam interrupted, tipping his head slightly to one side. “But all the races they run are out here.”

“Exactly,” Steve replied. “They were getting bored—Tony especially—and wanted to try something new. Besides, I think Thor’s brother lives out east and he was planning on meeting up with him or something. I dunno, Tasha’s the one with the details.”

Sam nodded, glancing at Natasha for further information, but she didn’t seem to be concentrating on their conversation anymore. She had pulled out her phone and was cupping it between two bare hands, scrolling through what looked like a complicated checklist. “Well, Steve,” she tucked the device back under her coat, pulling on her gloves as quickly as physically possible, “looks like you’re ready to the run the Iditarod.”

Sam’s face split into a wide grin again, eyes lighting up with excitement and relief. “You guys wanna go get some drinks to celebrate? I know a place…”

“We haven’t won yet, Wilson,” Natasha cut him off, “don’t get too ahead of yourself.”

“I’d love to, Sam,” Steve answered his friend’s unfinished question, “but I’ve still got stuff to do. Like getting the dogs ready for the truck ride tomorrow. That’s first priority. But if you wanna take a break, by all means, go for it.”

“Nah,” Sam waved off the offer, shaking his head. “If the Captain’s got stuff to do, I’m here to help.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Steve smiled at his friend, turning away from the finished sled and starting the trudge through the fresh snow toward the kennel’s entrance gate. “Alright, Sam, I need you to bring the truck around front. Natasha, come help me pick out the last three dogs for the team.”

“Got it,” Sam mock-saluted and headed for the garage, while Natasha fell in behind Steve.

“How about Miki and Kuni?” Natasha suggested as Steve fumbled with the padlock on the gate. “They’re young, but they’re stronger and more loyal than you give them credit for. You should give them a chance to prove themselves in the big league.”

“They’re barely three,” Steve protested. “And Kuni would rather knock me over and lick my face off than actually pull a sled.”

“I think she’ll do great,” Natasha countered. “Once she’s in the harness, she’ll pull just like all the others. Trust me.”

Sighing, Steve resigned himself to her better judgment. “If you say so.”

. . . . . .

“Everybody in!” Sam leaned out the window of Natasha’s Ford as Steve finished hooking up the trailer and feeding the dogs, all of whom were loudly voicing their excitement for the upcoming trip to Anchorage. Sixteen of his best—including little Miki and half-crazy Kuni—had been loaded into the trailer, separated from one another by wooden boards and crates. After all, they couldn’t risk a fight before the race had even begun, as a wounded dog would be automatically disqualified. And as Steve knew from years of experience, there was nothing these dogs loved more than fighting and running.

“Hit the brakes, Sam!” Natasha called from behind the trailer, and a second later she was at Steve’s side, nodding in approval. “Everything seems to be working. Signals, brakes, even the truck’s engine. I’m actually a little impressed.”

“That’s all well and good,” Sam stepped out of the driver’s seat and moved around to shotgun, leaving the engine idling lazily. “But we don’t wanna use up all our luck this early in the game. I actually kinda wish something hadn’t worked.”

Natasha shot him a look that was half disappointment, half amusement, before turning back to face Steve. “Are the dogs ready?”

Steve nodded, wading through the snow to the truck’s backdoor. Wrenching it open with a painfully shrill sound of ice grating on metal, he slid into the backseat and threw off his hood. Lowering his scarf, he lifted his gloved hands to his face and blew into the fabric in an attempt to thaw his frigid fingers. Behind him in the truck’s bed he could see the fully loaded sled, which Sam had strapped down with a web of bungee ropes and thick twine. Considering the back roads and rough driveways they’d be traversing over the next few hours, it didn’t even seem like overkill.

Natasha slid into the driver’s seat while Sam looked through her CD collection, sorting them into two piles on his knees. Steve watched with a sense of growing awe as Natasha threw the truck into gear and pulled out of the lot, beginning the rough, bumpy journey to Anchorage. _This is it,_ he thought, shaking his head and smiling slightly in disbelief, _I’m finally on my way._


	2. Anchorage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were a few issues with this when I tried to post it earlier, so I fixed my mistakes and am reposting it now. ^)^

There was no sleep for the team for two days before the start. Sam seemed to be surviving solely on caffeine and power bars, while Natasha spent her time prowling Anchorage and examining the competition from a distance. She refused to call it spying, even though that’s what it was: sizing up the other competitors and marking down those who seemed likely to pose the biggest challenges.

For his part, Steve was working day and night to get everything in order, from the dogs to the provisions, clothing and sled. By the morning of March 7, 2015, he was both sleep deprived and stiff from carrying massive bags of frozen beef and dog food from the provisioning store to the trailer all day, and was more than ready to sleep for a month. Unfortunately, though, that was not an option, as the race was set to begin in only a few hours and he still had to get his team to the chutes.

The dogs were tireless in their excitement, barking and howling as he led them one by one to the towline and hooked their harnesses to the center rope. Desna snapped playfully at his hand as he led her to the front of the team, placing her in front of Kuni and Miki. Lifting her lips, she made a low sound in her throat, the fur along her spine rippling. “Hush, Des,” he patted her head and she slicked back her ears, bumping his knee with her muzzle. “Be nice to the new girls, okay?” She thumped her wolf-like tail, tipping her head.

Natasha and Sam were waiting for him at the chutes, each nursing a cup of piping hot coffee. Without a word, Natasha handed him a drink of his own, then turned and walked away toward a small, empty tent on the side of the road. “Come on, Rogers,” she called over her shoulder. 

Steve glanced at Sam, who offered him a confused shrug. “Maybe she wants to give you a goodbye kiss?”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “I’ll be right back.” Cradling the coffee carefully between his thickly gloved hands, he started after the red-haired Russian.

“Listen, Steve, and listen carefully.” Natasha ducked under the tent into a narrow alleyway between two cafés, leaning against the graffiti-covered wall with her arms crossed over her chest. “We don’t have time for the long explanation, so I’m going to give you the short version.”

After a quick glance back at Sam, who gave him a thumbs-up, he slipped into the alley after her. “Is this about the competitors?”

She lifted one eyebrow and tilted her head slightly, her tongue flickering across her bottom lip. He’d never seen this expression on her before, a kind of nervous desperation hidden behind a cultivated calm. When she spoke again, her voice was low and intense. “One of the competitors, number thirteen. I know him. I trained with him a couple years back, back in Russia. And if he’s here, something’s wrong.”

“Number thirteen?” Steve thought back to all the racers he’d spoken with in the past three days, but he couldn’t recall even seeing number thirteen. “I don’t think I…”

“You wouldn’t have,” she cut in, “he’s a ghost, Steve. You see him once at the start and once at the finish, and then he’s gone until the next race. No one knows his real name. I don’t even know if he has one.”

“What do you mean?” Steve felt a cold pit open in his chest, the excitement and anticipation he’d felt moments before freezing solid. “Who is he?” 

“The media has a name for him,” Natasha bit her lip, glancing over her shoulder toward the crowded street beyond the alley; “they call him the Winter Soldier. He’s never lost a race, and he’s run more than twenty-five 200-or-more-mile routes all across the north. Trust me, Steve. I know what he’s capable of. Whatever he’s doing here, it’s not about the race.”

“What do you mean?” Steve reached out instinctively to grip her shoulder, fingers tightening around polyester and feather down. “He’s a racer, isn’t he? How can it not be about the race?”

“It’s all a cover,” her voice sank even lower, until he had to bend his head to pick up her words. “Listen, Steve. There’re things you don’t know about me. About what I’ve done. But I need you to trust me.”

Taking a deep breath, Steve closed his eyes. Very slowly, he nodded, and when he finally looked down at her again, he saw blatant relief in her icy eyes. “What’s going on, Tasha?”

“The Winter Soldier isn’t here to race. He’s on a mission, and that means we’ve got to stop him before he reaches Nome. I’d go after him, but I’m not signed up and I can’t get a team together fast enough anyway.”

Steve let his hand fall from her shoulder, clenching into a fist by his side. “Any chance you know what this mission might be?”

She shook her head, a far-away look in her eyes. “No, it’s been too long since I knew any of their secrets. But if they’ve brought him out here, it’s something big. Something deadly.” Shaking her head to bring herself back to the present, she turned and started back toward the chutes at a brisk jog. “It’s time, Captain. Ten minutes to start.”

“Hold on,” Steve took off after her as she made her way to the staging area on Fourth Street, where the ceremonial start would take place. “You said _‘they.’_ _‘They’_ brought him here. Who’s _they,_ Natasha?”

She ignored him, grabbing Sam’s hand and pulling him away from the chutes and into the crowd of spectators lining the streets. Snowmakers and flatbed trucks sat silent and empty behind the chutes, their loads of imported snow strewn across the naturally barren path of Fourth Street. The dogs in the chutes were slamming against their harnesses, throwing their heads back and screaming their impatience to get out on the trail and run. The sound of sled runners scraping the asphalt just under the thin snow joined the cacophony of cheers and catcalls from the crowd, a confusing mess of sound that made Steve’s head spin.

“Number Seventeen,” a short, heavily bundled man greeted Steve as he approached his sled, handing him a white patch with his number on it to attach to the front and back of his marine-blue coat. “Good luck, kid.” The man grinned and winked, stepping down to hand out the rest of the patches. 

Pulling off one layer of gloves, Steve pinned his number to his chest and back, nervously smoothing out the wrinkles as he stepped onto his sled’s runners and braced himself for what was sure to be a wild first few miles. Even though he knew that this was a false start—that the real race would begin later in the afternoon at Settler’s Bay, and that the ceremonial start in Anchorage was all done for television publicity—he couldn’t help but feel a jolt of elation and disbelief. For one moment he forgot all about Natasha’s words in the alley, forgot everything but the race. The Race. This was it, what he’d spent so many years training for. To run. To _win._

The first team to be let out of the chutes was met by a frenzy of cheering from the spectators, the sled flying out and away down Fourth Street as if the dogs had wings on their paws. Steve could see Number One holding on for dear life, the runners of his sled slicing through the false snow cover to the bare asphalt below. For one moment the racer lost control, his team tangling and falling over one another in their excitement, but then he managed to get back on the runners and out of sight.

Eleven more teams followed the first, and by the time they reached the end of Fourth Street one man had a broken collarbone and another’s sled had fallen apart due to a nasty roll. Steve watched as they were forced to scratch before they’d even begun, feeling his heart rise into his throat at the looks of disappointment and resignation on their faces. _I’ll make it,_ he assures himself, _I’m ready for this. I can finish._

When Number Thirteen’s turn came to leave the chute, Steve was instantly on the alert. He watched as the thirteenth racer and his team blew out of the chutes and onto the street, flawlessly maneuvering down four blocks and around the corner without a hitch. Despite Steve’s best efforts to catch a glimpse of the racer’s face, he saw only a flash of polarized goggles and a black mask covering the bottom half of the racer’s face. Strangely, the Winter Soldier wasn’t wearing a hood, and his long brunette hair fell in dark strands against the back of his neck. Unlike most of the racers, who were wearing thick down coats in all manners of colors from pink to yellow and white, Number Thirteen was dressed all in black, from his boots to the collar of his form-fitting jacket. With a jolt of anxiety, Steve noted that he looked more like an assassin than a racer. The feeling turned to dread at the realization that it was entirely possible that he was.

When Steve’s turn finally came, his team had worked themselves into such a frenzy that they seemed shocked when the chute finally opened and they were finally free to run. But once they gathered their senses enough to move forward, they were off in a blur of speed and determination, paws scrabbling on churned snow as they carried the sled past the screaming crowd toward the end of Fourth Street. Cameras flashed and boom microphones hovered over the team as they raced down the first four blocks, reporters and cameramen all vying for position at the front of the gathering.

“Good luck!” Sam’s voice somehow rose above the chaos, and Steve turned to wave at his friend. Sam and Natasha had somehow fought their way to the edge of the street and were watching him go with completely conflicting expressions on their faces. Sam was waving enthusiastically, a huge grin splitting his face in half, while Natasha stood stiffly beside him with her hands at her sides and her lips pressed into a thin line. Steve only got a brief glimpse of them as he passed, before he found himself and the sled flying around the corner at the end of Fourth and leaving Anchorage and the madness of the ceremonial false-start behind him.

A few miles out, in the suburbs of Eagle River, the teams were forced to stop by the freeway leading into Anchorage. All the dogs were gathered up and put into trucks, as were the sleds and racers, and driven to Settler’s Bay where the whole insane start had to be done over. But at least the second time there were no cameras or screaming crowds, and the dogs were minimally less crazy because of it. They still howled and slammed against their harnesses as they were placed in a second chute, ears pressed back and tails curled over their bristling backs. The teams went out one by one, racing straight into the wilderness as the sun’s light faded in the west and night crept in on silent paws.

After the second start the dogs were so insane to run that they refused to stop for the night, even when Steve was so tired that he could barely stay upright on the back of the sled and his vision was blurred with exhaustion. They ran all afternoon and into the night, not stopping for almost ten straight hours of madness and speed. When the sun finally rose over the mountains to the east, they still hadn’t tired, but they were more than willing to stop for a short rest and snack. Steve lit his small gas stove—a provision requirement for all racers—and heated up hunks of raw frozen beef and canned dog food. The dogs devoured the snack in quick gulps, and within fifteen minutes they were off again.

Although many teams had pulled ahead during the first night of madness, Steve—or more realistically, Steve’s dogs—had managed to hold their own during the initial dash. When they reached the first of twenty-one checkpoints, only nineteen teams were ahead and over forty behind, while two teams arrived at Yentna mere minutes before them. Number Fourteen and Forty-Five, Steve noted, both looking weary but elated as they set up their stoves and set about melting snow for coffee.

The checkpoint was alive with spectators and reporters, their shouting and the flash of cameras accompanied by the constant rumble and roar of small airplanes landing and taking off on the ice fields. The commotion and constant noise made sure that no one got any real rest, and Steve spent most of his hour-long break untangling harnesses, stopping fights, applying salves and booties to injured paws, and melting water for his thirsty team. By the time everything was taken care of, he was too exhausted to start again, so he got out his thickest sleeping pad and bag and crawled underneath it for a short power nap.

He’d survived the first day, but he knew that it was only the beginning. The Winter Soldier was still out there somewhere, and beside that, there was a race to be won. Now was not the time for weakness. Now was the time for action, for perseverance in the face of impossible odds. Because that was what this race was about. Survival. Endurance. Strength.

But that could wait a few minutes, right? As his eyes drifted shut, Steve turned over and burrowed his face into his coat, the sounds of barking dogs and plane engines fading with his consciousness.


	3. Fallen Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just got back from a week-long vacation with no internet, so I'm only now getting around to posting this! But at least I had plenty of time to polish it, so hopefully there aren't too many typos. ^)^ Sorry it's been so long since I last updated, but I couldn't get a connection until about an hour ago. Anyway, it's here now! <3

Snow fell in thick swirls around the sled, the dogs panting and surging as they hauled their heavy load through a particularly deep drift. They’d lost the trail over an hour before, but Steve wasn’t worried. They’d been lost before, and although this detour would cost them time in the race, he couldn’t help but feel that it was worth it. The view of distant Mt. McKinley was spectacular, an iced peak shimmering in the faint light of the setting sun. The fluttering flakes drifting lazily out of the sky settled on the waterproof fabric of Steve’s coat, lying still and undamaged. Tiny, perfect frost sculptures floating to earth. 

“Would ya look at that,” Bucky stopped the team for a moment, standing beside the lead dog with one gloved hand buried in her fur and the other on her collar. His slate-blue eyes were bright and full of energy and life, brighter even than the sunshine on the highest peak. “You ever seen anything more beautiful in your life, Stevie?” 

Steve smiled. “I dunno, Buck. Remember that night in Nome when we were kids? I’ve never seen the northern lights shine as bright as they did then.” 

“That was the first time you told me about the Iditarod,” Bucky replied. “And how you were gonna win no matter what.” 

“You told me I was crazy,” Steve laughed, shaking his head so that the fur lining of his hood brushed his cheeks and mussed his golden hair. 

“Yeah, well. You weighed about seventy pounds and were sick every other week. Can’t blame me for not being too optimistic.” 

“Good thing I grew out of it, huh?” Steve leaned back against the sled, rubbing his frozen nose with his fingers to try and get sensation back into it. “I probably would’ve signed up no matter what.” 

“You didn’t grow out of the crazy, then,” Bucky shot Steve one of his most charming smiles as he released the lead dog’s collar and gave her room to run, letting the team take off into the snow. The sled glided past him and he fell into step behind it, one hand resting lightly on the side. 

“Hey, _you’re_ the one following _me_. Watch who you’re calling crazy.” 

Bucky shook his head, still smiling. “You’re a punk.” 

“Jerk.” 

The dogs took off in a rush of excitement and determination, barking and snapping at each other as their lines tangled and their shoulders collided in the mad scramble. The sled glided in their wake, bumping over the uneven new terrain. Bucky walked beside them as they ran, untangling the ropes and breaking up fights with calm, practiced ease. Steve watched as his best friend’s skilled fingers undid knots that would have had a lesser man reaching for a knife, the corner of his mouth quirking into a crooked half-smile. They’d come so far since that night in Nome, and they were only getting started. 

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky turned to grin at him down the trail, the last rays of the sun touching his face like the caress of an angel’s wings, “where do ya think we’ll be in five years from now? Ten? Fifty?” 

“I dunno, Buck,” Steve replied, smiling back at him. “No idea.” 

“Yeah, me neither. But no matter what happens, there’s no way you’re getting’ rid of me; not now, not ever. I’m with you to the end of the line, pal. Whether you like it or not.” His tone was light and teasing, eyes full of laughter as he turned away toward the darkening forest ahead. 

And then the ground fell away under his feet, time slowing as a sound like rolling thunder erupted from the earth. An enormous chunk of snow and rock broke away from the cliff edge and glided almost majestically into the gorge below, pulling Bucky with it. With a shout, the dark-haired man reached out and grabbed the edge of the sled, gloved fingers wrapping desperately tight around the right runner in an attempt to arrest his fall. 

“Bucky!” the scream was torn from Steve’s throat as he launched himself toward his best friend, leaning out over the edge as the sled slipped off the cliff, dragged down by Bucky’s weight. The dogs strained and huffed as they dug their paws into the fresh snow, stubbornly refusing to let the sled slide backward. But despite their valiant efforts, the lightly packed snow slipped between their splayed toes like sand through an hourglass, leaving them scrambling for purchase on the heavy drifts. 

When Bucky looked up and his eyes met Steve’s, there was a terrifying mixture of fear and acceptance in his gaze. The fingers of his left hand were slipping, the runner cracking under the strain. The sled creaked and groaned loudly, and Steve knew that there were only seconds left before it fell apart. 

“Give me your hand!” Steve extended his own, muscles straining as he fought to close the last few inches between them. “Bucky, give me your hand!” 

Bucky’s booted feet scrabbled against the slick cliff face as he attempted to propel himself upward, swinging his right arm up to grab Steve’s hand. For the briefest moment their fingertips brushed, and in that instant Steve allowed himself to hope. But in the next it was over, the sled’s runner splintering as it was torn violently from the sideboards with a sound like a cougar’s death-cry. Pieces of shattered wood and metal spiraled into the abyss, carried away on the winds of the rising blizzard. Bucky fell backward in slow motion, his right hand extended and his left gripping what was left of the runner. A look of panic was frozen on his face, lips parted around a breathless scream. Spread-eagle midair, wind-borne flurries of snow twisting beneath him like beating wings. It was as if he’d been shot from the sky, an angel falling into hell, the black flames of the void rising to encompass him as he fell down, down, down… 

“ _NO!_ ” Steve felt his heart break into a thousand sharp pieces as Bucky’s body was swallowed whole by the swirling white-out, their screams swept away by the howling wind. Emotions bled out of Steve’s shattered soul and flowed into a river of red-hot pain, vision blurring with tears as he lay shocked and frozen at the cliff’s edge. “God no, please, Bucky, no, God, _BUCKY!”_

. . . . . . 

“Hey, hey! Wake up. C’mon, buddy, wake up. ‘s okay. ‘s just a dream.” 

Steve bolted upright, hands fisted desperately in the fabric of his folded coat, frozen tears tracing the curves of his cheeks. He was shuddering, his lungs constricting with every breath he took. He blinked against the darkness of night that surrounded him, looking up into the face of the man kneeling at his side. He looked almost familiar, the messy brunette hair and strong jaw-line triggering memories hidden in the deepest corners of his heart. “Buck?” his voice was a hoarse whisper, rough and raw. “Bucky?” 

“Sorry, buddy,” the man’s voice took on a sympathetic note, and no, that was definitely not Bucky’s voice. “I’m not him.” 

Steve sat up, pulling on his coat and tucking his half-frozen legs under him. Rubbing one hand firmly across his face, he looked up sheepishly at the other racer, lips half-parted as he tried to think of something, anything, to say. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he gestured at the moon rising over the ragged mountain peaks. “Guess I slept longer than I meant to, huh?” 

The other man huffed, shaking his head. “Thought you were frozen at first, you were so still. Almost tripped over your dogs in the dark. But then you started thrashin’, and screamin’, and I thought the hallucinations had taken you. Almost went for a medic, but you woke up before I could. You are alright, aren’t ya?” 

Steve pushed himself into a crouched position, stuffing his sleeping bag into a pouch and rolling up his thick foam pad. He placed both on the sled, strapping them firmly atop his provisions. “I gotta feed my dogs,” he sighed, turning his back on the other racer as he searched for his container of raw beef. “Thanks for checking on me. I appreciate it.” 

“Anytime, bud,” the stranger replied, and Steve listened as his footsteps retreated down the riverbank. 

Once the dogs had been fed and watered and Steve had drunk enough coffee to keep him up for months, they set off again in a frantic frenzy of churning paws. The dogs’ excitement at moving out was visible in the way they strained and surged against their harnesses, like salmon fighting their way upstream. Snow was falling sluggishly from a cluster of dark grey clouds hanging low in the sky, the flakes lightly salting Steve’s gear with minuscule crystals. The temperature had dropped as the night progressed, dipping so low that even the dogs seemed mildly uncomfortable. They danced over the thick drifts with their heads and tails held high, chests puffed out and ears laid back against their sleek, muscular necks. The wind had picked up and was howling through the stunted pines, rattling their dry branches like old bones. The moon’s pale light filtered down onto the trail ahead, illuminating the indents in the snow made by hundreds of paws. Everything glowed a dull gold-white, adding to the eerie otherworldliness of the night scenery. 

Halfway to the fifth checkpoint—Skwentna--Steve stopped to check the dogs’ paws for scraps and bruising, applying salve and fitting booties wherever they were needed. He fed his team a snack of canned dog food mixed with softened kibble, making sure not to give them anything that would cut up their digestive tract when they were running. 

“Good girl,” Steve patted Desna’s shoulder and his lead dog leaned into the touch, nudging his hand with her frozen nose. Steve smiled, bending to press a kiss to the husky’s head. He’d always had a special fondness for Des, a bond of trust and loyalty beyond the companionship he shared with the rest of the team. 

Allowing himself a moment of rest, Steve thought back to the first time he’d ever laid eyes on his lead dog. It had been more than five years before, when he and Bucky had found the then-scrawny pup abandoned roadside in a disintegrating cardboard box. They’d taken her in and tended her until she was strong, two teenage boys and a half-starved pup struggling to survive the harsh Alaskan Winter in a heatless log cabin. Together they’d watched with pride as Spring came and Desna grew into one of the finest sled dogs in Alaska, proud, noble and fiercely loyal. Bucky had always said that Des reminded him of little Stevie; her brave heart too big for her delicate body. But like Steve, Desna had filled out once she reached adolescence, her coat thickening and her muscles growing sleeker and more compact with every passing day. By the time Steve was twenty-one, they were the envy of the north: the Captain and his unbeatable lead dog, forging new paths together through the Alaskan frontier. 

_Couldn’t have done any of it without Bucky,_ Steve thought, a familiar dull longing squeezing his heart, _Probably wouldn’t have lasted a day if he hadn’t been there to make sure I packed warm clothes and ate good food._ A pained chuckle escaped his lips, and his eyes pricked uncomfortably. He should be here, he thought, and suddenly there wasn’t enough air to fill his lungs, nor enough memories to fill the hole his best friend had left in his heart. Looking up at the faint patch of stars winking down at him through a gash in the clouds, he tried desperately to swallow the lump growing in his throat. _I miss you, Buck. Miss you so damn much._

As he stood there, the sun began to rise in the east, crimson light spreading across the fresh drifts like a bloodstain on white silk. The stars flickered and went out one by one, swallowed whole by the dawn. Steve bowed his head as the golden rays kissed his face, gentle as the brush of an angel’s wing against his skin. 

Day three had begun.


	4. Frozen Flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I had it my way, I would have finished this fic ages ago, but as it is my classes are notoriously time-consuming and homework-producing and I have little to no time for writing at the moment. I was really hoping to be able to update more than once a week, but so far that hasn't been happening. But despite my crazy schedule, I'm going to keep updating at least once a week for as long as I can, I promise! ^)^ (Not because I'm good at being productive, but because my muse would beat me up if I didn't but shhhhhthat'snotimportant. xD) Anyway, here's chapter four! ;D

The tiny town of Skwentna was alive with racers when Steve arrived, the sound of dogs barking and men shouting clearly audible even at a distance. More than thirty miles from the previous checkpoint, the small cluster of houses nestled at the confluence of the Yentna and Skwentna Rivers was a welcome sight, the faint scent of roasting beef tangling with the bitterly cold north wind. The exciting new sounds and smells sent the dogs into a frenzy, barking and snapping at each other as they ran. Soft flakes of snow fell in flurries like silver butterfly wings spiraling to earth, settling atop the drifts, and Desna scooped them up on the tip of her nose with a huge dog-grin on her face and a sparkle in her mismatched eyes. As always, she seemed to be the only dog not interested in fighting—instead she was as calm and collected as ever, a true leader and role-model for her companions.

Steve called the dogs to a halt, the brakes on the sled sending up a spray of ice and snow as the team stopped outside a wooden cabin located about fifty meters from the edge of the town. The small but sturdy shelter was the source of the cooking smell, the rich aroma pouring from the half-open front door. Nine other sleds had been left in a half-circle around the cabin; the dogs tethered and bedded down in the deep powder while their racers enjoyed the hot meal inside. 

Steve anchored the sled, disconnecting the team and firmly staking down the towline. Moving down the line, he tossed a hunk of half-thawed beef to each dog, watching with a small smile as they gulped the snack and begged for more. 

He reached Desna and buried his fingers in her ruff, scratching gently behind her erect ears. “Good girl,” he murmured, slipping her an extra strip of meat. She whined appreciatively, rubbing her muzzle against his knee and mouthing playfully at his pant leg. 

Once the team had been checked over, fed, and bedded down, Steve finally headed into the cabin. The shelter was home to a couple who had for many years provided free first-class home-cooked meals to hungry racers. It was a checkpoint everyone looked forward too, and for good reason. Even though it was only day three, Steve was exhausted, bone-weary from sleep deprivation and exertion, and ready to crash for the better part of a year. But since that was not an option, the next best thing was a crackling fire and a huge plate of hot food. 

The small living room was full of racers, some of them sitting in front of the roaring fire and others re-loading their plates with roast beef, mashed potatoes and thick gravy. Steve quickly joined the latter group, his whole body aching with the intensity of his hunger. Although he’d stopped every couple hours to give the dogs a quick snack, it had been nearly a day since he’d had anything close to a proper meal. 

A man with slightly graying medium-long hair gave him a friendly nod as he moved away from the buffet table toward the fire, and after a moment Steve realized that this man must be the cabin’s host. Smiling back, he settled himself down with his plate in his lap and his coat folded between his shoulders and the wall. Letting out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, Steve finally allowed himself a moment to totally relax. He shifted slightly to one side as the cabin host settled down next to him, turning to face the older man. “Looks like you’ve got the most popular place in town,” he grinned, hoping the expression didn’t look as pained as it felt. After all, you couldn’t cross fifty miles of frozen wilderness on a dog sled without at least a touch of frostbite. 

The host nodded, his silver eyes thoughtful as he looked at Steve. “You people all look like you’ve been through hell,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking down slightly, “and yet you’re all still determined to make it. To win. Guess it takes real spirit to do this thing, don’t it?” 

Steve swallowed the huge bite of beef in his mouth, wiping his lips on the flimsy paper napkin he’d been provided with. “Yeah, spirit is part of it,” he replied, “but sometimes it’s not even about winning. Sometimes it’s just about the run.” 

The host laughed, shaking his head. “You sound crazy, kid, but I know what you mean. Back when I used to trap down by Yentna it was never about how many beavers I could bag in one night or how much ground I could cover. It was about the dogs running and the falling snow and the sound of silence and freedom. There’s nothing like it, is there? Real freedom.” 

Steve nodded, turning to stare into the fire. The flames battled for dominance, rising one over the other in violent bursts of gold and scarlet. A tinge of gray-blue flickered around the hottest burning logs, the same blue as a clear northern sky in mid July. The same color as familiar eyes full of energy and life, the color of love and laughter and _freedom…_

“Who are you running for, then?” the host’s thoughtful expression was back, his silver eyes fixed intently on Steve. “Girlfriend? Wife? Mother? Everyone’s always running for someone, you know. Twenty years of hosting this race, and everyone I’ve met has always got someone at the finish line they’re running to get back to. Besides, you’ve got that look. Like you’re missing someone.” 

Steve shook his head, sighing. “Yeah, I guess I am. But it’s not who I’m going back to at the end of this. That person… he’s gone.” 

The host’s gaze filled with a mixture of surprise and compassion, and he bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

_Not just my loss,_ Steve thought as he stood up and set about wiping the last traces of food off his plate, _Even the stars won’t shine as bright without him._ Setting the clean ceramic disk on the food table, he offered the host a tired smile. “Thank you so much for all the work you and your wife have done here for the racers. We really appreciate it.” 

“It’s my pleasure, son,” the host said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Good luck out there.” 

“I might need it,” Steve replied, heading for the exit. But before he could push his way back out into the cold, he paused with one hand on the doorknob and the other braced against the doorframe. For a moment he could hear Natasha’s voice in his head and see again the intensity in her icy gaze as she stared up at him in a dark alleyway in Anchorage. _“The Winter Soldier is on a mission, and that means we’ve got to stop him before he reaches Nome.”_

Turning back to face the host, Steve asked, “Hey, any chance you saw Number Thirteen in here earlier today?” 

“Number Thirteen?” the host tilted his head back, scratching his stubbled chin thoughtfully. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I might have. He didn’t come inside, though. Just passed by on his way through. To be quite honest, I don’t know why he wouldn’t stop. Free meals aren’t exactly a dime a dozen out here, and he must’ve been running all day and all night to get the lead he’s got.” 

Steve grimaced, trying to hide the flare of worry at the masked racer's progress that burst to life in his chest. Sighing, he said, “Well, I guess that answers my next question, too.” Twisting the handle, he wrenched open the door and stepped outside. “Thanks again for everything,” he called over his shoulder as it swung shut behind him. 

. . . . . . 

As the third night of the race fell like a heavy cotton blanket over the wilderness, sleep deprivation and the insanity of the run finally caught up to Steve and tore him down like a timber wolf would a stag. The crescent moon was at its zenith when the first hallucinations took hold of his mind, throwing him bodily across the razorblade line between calm and panic. He’d been warned by experienced Iditarod racers that this might happen if he didn’t take proper care to sleep more than two hours a day, that eventually his imagination would take over his brain and create waking dreams as vivid as reality itself. 

The first sign that something was wrong was when he smelled smoke. At first he thought that someone must be having a fire further down the trail, or else that the fire smoke from the feast cabin in Skwentna had stuck to his clothes. 

But it wasn’t fire smoke. It was too acrid to be natural, too electric and artificial. Too much like... 

_Gunpowder,_ he realized after a moment, his heart jolting painfully in his chest. He’d heard of trappers and hunters coming this far north, but it seemed unlikely that any would be this close to the trail. With the scent of hundreds of dogs fresh on the snow, all prey animals in their right minds would be far away. 

“Steve?” 

Steve called the dogs to a halt with a frantic command, leaping off the back of the sled and reaching for his survival knife with shaking hands. Drawing it in a flash of silver, he stood in the dark with his breath freezing his lungs and a single word freezing his heart. “Bucky?” he whispered to the night, the question sticking in his throat like hot liquor. 

A dark figure moved into his sight, standing at the front of his team with its head bowed and its face obscured by darkness. “Good girl, Des,” he heard it murmur, and the words were so achingly familiar that he couldn’t help but take a step closer to their source. The strange-but-not-strange man reached down and ran his fingers through the storm-gray husky’s coat, but she didn’t react to the touch like Steve had expected. Instead she stood there, panting, her blue and brown eyes silently begging him to let her run. And yet the man was there, he was _there_ , Steve could see him, hear him, maybe even _touch_ him… 

“Buck,” Steve choked, stumbling forward and falling to his knees as a thin crust of snow gave out under his weight and sent him stumbling into a waist-high drift. “Bucky, please…” 

_Please what? Be alive? Be alive and whole and_ here, _alive like nothing had happened and they were running again, alone together in the wild freedom of the north?_

“Steve, it’s okay,” Bucky moved closer, down the towline until he was standing over Steve in the snow. “Here, grab my hand and I’ll help you up.” Extending one gloved hand, he reached down, and Steve reached up, their fingers just inches apart… 

And then Bucky was gone in a blaze of frozen fire, his final screams ringing in Steve’s ears as clearly as they had on that awful day four years ago. In his place stood the masked racer in black, Number Thirteen, with his gun leveled at Steve’s head and a strange blankness in his frosty gaze. Steve closed his eyes, waiting for the shot to come, but it never did and he wasn’t sure if he was thankful or not when his eyes opened and he found that he was alone again. 

Dragging himself out of the drift and staggering back to the sled, he barely managed to plant himself on the runners before the last of his strength faded and he slumped forward onto the supplies, head cradled in his hands. In a voice as broken as his shattered heart, he gave the command to run. 

The dogs took off into the night, streaks of silver, grey, brown and white in the blackness. In Steve’s eyes they blurred into a single line of flame, flickering and burning on the trail ahead. This was the last thing he was aware of before he gave in to the darkness at the edges of his vision and slept at last.


	5. Rainy Pass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a week late! I had college mid-terms, and they took up all my time. Yyyck. But today I finally got some time to write, so here's the next chapter! ^)^

The first day of the climb into the mountains dawned dark and cold, thick clouds sprawling like heaps of grey wool piled haphazardly atop gleaming peaks. Flurries of snow spiraled around the sled and settled on the dogs’ sleek backs, until the color of their fur blended seamlessly with the trail under their paws. 

The hallucinations had died away during the night, only flaring occasionally when a sudden movement or noise caught Steve off-guard. He figured he had only slept for four hours at most, hanging off the back of the sled like a bag of provisions rather than a proper racer. 

But despite the guilt he felt at leaving the dogs to run without instruction, he knew that the brief rest had been completely necessary. After his waking nightmare, he was sure that he would have suffered a breakdown had he not fallen instantly unconscious, so he was grateful that sleep had claimed him before his over-active emotions got the chance. 

“Hey, Number Seventeen! Yeah, you, kid.” 

Steve straightened up and pushed his hood back, turning stiffly on the runners to get a look at the man yelling down the trail at him. The other racer was still a ways behind, his voice carried further than normal by frigid gusts of northern wind. “What?” Steve called back, cupping one hand against his mouth in an attempt to make his words carry farther. 

The other racer pushed his dogs harder, pulling up beside Steve’s team as they crossed a flat, open part of the trail. Steve could see only a strip of the other man’s face beneath a thick balaclava and even thicker hood, and from what he could tell this racer was older by maybe fifteen or twenty years. The faint lines of half-formed wrinkles were visible beneath a slightly bent nose, curving around the corners of the man’s chapped mouth. But despite his harsh tone, his eyes seemed kind, and there was the hint of a smile on his lips. “I heard you last night,” the man said once he had removed the material constricting the movement of his jaw, “screaming like a wild man. Was it the hallucinations?” 

Steve sighed, closing his eyes as he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it was.” 

The other racer’s expression was a mixture of emotions, caught somewhere between pity and exasperation. “I got ‘em too, first time I was out here. But that was almost ten years ago. Didn’t anyone tell you to sleep and eat enough while you’re out here?” 

“Yeah,” Steve said again, and for a moment he hoped he wasn’t coming off as too standoffish with his virtually one-word vocabulary. He was still shaken by his experiences the night before, and the last thing he wanted was to listen to a lecture about proper sleep scheduling. “But you don’t win races lying in a tent.” 

“No you do not,” the older racer agreed. “But you also don’t win races by running yourself—and your team—into the ground. They might not act like they want it, but those poor animals of yours need to sleep just as much as you do.” 

Steve sighed, rubbing one hand across his face as a dizzying mix of exhaustion and frustration washed over him. “I know. I stop ever two hours to check their paws and feed them, and I know not to overwork them. Trust me, I owe them everything, and I’d never make them do anything I didn’t think they could handle.” 

“And yet the same can’t be said about yourself, huh? Because it doesn’t seem like you handled the night visions very well at all.” The strange racer shook his head, letting out a deep sigh that was carried away by the wind. “Just watch yourself out here, kid. Despite what everyone says about the wind and the snow and the ice and the wilderness beasts, the real danger is the adrenaline that poisons our blood and makes us desperate to win at all costs. Just remember that winning isn’t worth your life. Or the dogs’. Or anyone’s. There’re bigger things than the race.” He paused, letting his words sink in. He couldn’t know just how deep they cut, or how horribly late his words of warning had come. 

_I know that!_ Steve wanted to scream. Nothing could ever be worth the cost he’d paid. No matter how many races he ran, no many how many he won, he could never bring back the only thing that should have mattered. “I know,” he replied after a long moment of trying to compose himself and failing, “I’ll make sure to let the dogs rest as soon as possible.” 

“Make sure that you do,” the other racer sighed as he passed Steve and started down the trail ahead. Steve’s team barked and snapped at the stranger’s dogs as they passed, raising their hackles and putting on an extra burst of speed, but Steve pulled them back with a sharp whistle. It was enough that he’d just been told off and called ‘kid’ multiple times by a man barely fifteen years older; he didn’t want to seem like an over-competitive hotshot on top of it all. 

_That’s what you are, though,_ Steve thought, and flinched when he heard the words in Bucky’s voice. _Always runnin’ into trouble without a plan or any sense to back you up._

_And you were always supposed to be there, Buck. To watch my back. To keep me from going too far. To the end of the line._ Steve took a long, shaky breath. _That’s what you said, wasn’t it? So why did the end have to come so soon?_

During the time Steve and the other racer had been talking, the clouds had grown even thicker, midday turning into dusk with astonishing speed. 

Once Steve was alone again, he stopped the team for a moment’s rest beside a stand of stunted evergreens. After feeding and watering the dogs, he sat down on the edge of the sled with his ankles crossed and his hands stuffed into his cavernous jacket pockets. He stared up at the trail ahead, which rose steeply up into the glossy white peaks of the Alaska Range. Rainy Pass—one of the first major Iditarod checkpoints—lay directly ahead, marking the beginning of what many racers had called the hardest thirty miles of the race. 

The dogs refused to rest for more than half an hour, their impatient snarling and yelping rising into a crescendo of chaotic begging. They strained and bit at their harnesses in their desperation, but it wasn’t until fights began breaking out that Steve had no choice but to get back on the sled and let them pull. 

The day went as smoothly as a day on an all-up-hill trail could go, and by the time night began to fall again, Steve was beginning to think about getting ahead again. And it wasn’t just because he wanted to win—that he _had_ to win. It was because Number Thirteen was still out ahead; still making his way to Nome, and Natasha had made it explicitly clear that Steve could not to let him finish his mission no matter the cost. 

The Rainy Pass checkpoint was alive with activity when he arrived at sundown, racers pausing for a brief rest and meal before continuing up the treacherously steep and narrow trail into the mountains. Steve allowed his team to rest for a little over four hours, but couldn’t do more than lie sleeplessly in his tent with his dark and persistent thoughts chasing each other through his mind like husky pups fighting over a bone. Even when he forced himself to close his eyes, all he could see was a masked face and a black gun leveled at his forehead, a gloved finger resting on the trigger as Number Thirteen steadied the weapon for a kill-shot. 

And the worst part was that this image had somehow merged with his memory of the last time he’d seen Bucky, of the last smile and the last laugh before it was all over; as if the two were connected, the memory and the hallucination, somehow tied up in a horrible web of fear and pain stretched across Steve’s mind… 

Steve couldn’t rest until he was on the trail again, running through the darkness with only a headlight and Des’s unfailing internal compass to guide them. The dogs were more than happy to be on the move again, completely refreshed by their four-hour nap, their pink tongues lolling and their booted paws drumming a steady rhythm on the snow. They continued like this for what seemed like hours, and at times Steve wasn’t sure if he was awake or asleep, alive or dead, and wondered if that was what it was like to be caught in limbo. To exist in two times, two worlds, two lives. 

And then he was falling, the ground disappearing from under his feet as he tumbled sideways and slid away from the trail. The team had taken a wrong turn and he hadn’t noticed, climbing up a dangerously narrow side-trail until the path ended abruptly and there was nowhere left for them to go. Des had stopped suddenly, and the sled had struck a rock outcropping and flipped, dumping Steve over the edge of the trail and down a particularly steep and icy cliff. _At least I wasn’t attached to the sled,_ he thought as he tumbled and slid toward what was surely his death. _At least the team isn’t coming with me this time._

He struck a rock and ricocheted like a stray bullet, his entire left side screaming in agony as something deep inside of him cracked. _Rib, probably,_ he thought dazedly, his mind already drifting as a sick mixture of adrenaline and terror overwhelmed any rational thought. Before he went unconscious, his last coherent thought was, _Guess I shoulda listened to that racer on the trail earlier. Looks like he knew what he was talking about._

His vision was obscured by blood-red stars, fading to blackness along with the white-hot pain. At least that was a relief. At least he didn’t have to hurt anymore. 

. . . . . . 

Steve came back to his senses gradually, memories rising like bubbles through the deep mire of unconsciousness. Blue eyes snapped open, a too-shaky breath forced into cramped and frozen lungs. At first he panicked, unsure where he was. Everything was dark, and his entire body hurt. If felt like someone had taken a bat full of nails and beaten every inch of him; not just his body, but his soul. _Where am I?_ He thought desperately, struggling to sit up. But there was something keeping him down, a gloved hand spread against his chest. Blinking, he struggled to see through the fog obscuring his vision, trying to get a better look at the figure standing over him. 

And then he caught sight of a glint of silver in the darkness, the flash of a long and wicked-looking blade resting just above his heart. “You followed me,” the man holding him down said, and for some reason the stranger’s voice sparked recognition somewhere deep in Steve’s memory. “Why? What do you know?” 

For a second Steve was confused, and then cold realization washed over him and he felt his heart rise into his throat. He swallowed hard, fighting to force out words even as his ribs throbbed and his head ached. “I know who you are. Why you're here.” 

Number Thirteen rose to his full height, standing silhouetted against the night sky as he drew a sleek black gun and leveled it at Steve’s head. "The only thing I am... is the man who’s going to kill you.”


	6. Acting on Instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm looking forward to a lot of 'shipping and fluffy fanfic/fanart browsing this Saturday! Yeah, I've got amazing Valentine's Day expectations, I know. xD 
> 
> Speaking of Valentine's Day, I made a Stucky-themed Valentine's Day card that I posted on (one of my many) Deviantart accounts. So yeah. xD Anyway, happy Valentine's Day to all you Starbucks 'shippers out there!! 
> 
> Shamelessly love-struck wolf!Steve and wolf!Bucky Valentine's Day card ----> http://wenokawolfe.deviantart.com/art/To-the-End-of-the-Line-Valentine-513500080

Steve tried to hold on to reality as the world jolted around him, feeling a strange stickiness along his injured side. _I’m bleeding,_ he realized dully, but found he didn’t have enough strength left to care. After all, he was about to be killed anyway, so what did it matter if he was bleeding out or not? It wasn’t like he would be around long enough to suffer the consequences. 

Number Thirteen rested one finger against the trigger, his dark eyes the only thing visible in the darkness, and Steve braced himself for the shot that would end it all. But before the assassin could pull the trigger, a streak of silver, white, and dark grey burst out of the night, bowling Number Thirteen over effortlessly. A familiar snarl ripped from the creature’s throat, and Steve immediately recognized Desna pinning his would-be killer to the ground a few feet away in the snow. 

“Des,” Steve gasped, wincing as he sat up and attempted to move closer to his frenzied dog. All he knew was that Number Thirteen had a loaded gun, and he was pretty sure that the masked assassin was in no way against using it on a dog. Des was a good fighter, sure, but only against other animals. If weapons other than claws and teeth got involved, she wouldn’t stand a chance. Staggering to his feet, he moved forward and grabbed his lead dog by the collar, dragging her away from the prone figure spread-eagle in the snow. 

In a flash, Number Thirteen was up. As soon as the shock of being pinned by ninety pounds of sleek, muscular husky began to wear off, he was immediately ready to fight. Taking a defensive stance, he whirled to face Steve. His face was illuminated by the faint moonlight breaking through the dense cloud cover, eyes catching the pale light like grey-blue gemstones. 

And that’s when Steve realized: in her assault, Desna had torn away the assassin’s mask, leaving his features exposed. His teeth were bared in a half-snarl of defiance, jaw set and medium-length brunette hair falling in untidy strands against his cheekbones. For a moment Steve stood facing him, staring, and Number Thirteen stared back. And then, in a flood of horrified recognition, Steve managed to choke out a single, incredulous word: 

_“Bucky?”_

Number Thirteen lifted his chin, the light catching in the counters of his exposed throat and glancing off his damp and slightly parted lips. “Who the hell is Bucky?” His voice was low and devoid of emotion, but it was _his_ voice. Bucky was alive. 

Or at least his body was. There was no recognition in the assassin’s eyes, nothing to hint at the fact that Number Thirteen had known Steve Rogers for almost twenty years. 

Steve felt numb. Not the kind of numbness that was spreading through his physical body, but an emptiness that filled his heart and overflowed until it felt like he’d drown in it. A single thought pounded through Steve’s mind, an elusive realization that he was too terrified to pin down and examine. _He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know…_

The assassin—Bucky—turned as if to leave, but at the last moment he whirled around and aimed his gun at Steve’s throat. “Who are you?” he snarled, finger hovering dangerously close to the trigger. “Why did you follow me?” 

“Didn’t,” Steve managed to get out, his vision blurring as his knees buckled and he sank toward the thick snow at the bottom of the ravine they’d fallen down. “Des—my lead dog—she took us off the trail. Must’ve followed your scent.” For someone whose entire world had just been ripped to shreds and then clumsily taped back together, Steve found that his voice was surprisingly neutral. 

Number Thirteen seemed to consider this for a long moment, before lowering the gun slightly. Not enough to stop covering Steve’s most vital areas, but enough to show that he wasn’t as sure about killing Steve as he had been before Des attacked. “Who are you?” he repeated his first question, slate-blue eyes hard and cold. “What do you know?” 

“I could ask you the same things,” Steve’s strength finally gave out and he fell into an undignified crouch, doubled over and gasping as a fresh wave of pain washed over him. Tears pricked at his eyes, brought on by a mixture of fear, shock, and intense disbelief. _I saw him fall,_ he thought, his vision going black around the edges and his throat dry from direct contact with the frigid northern air. _It should have ended there._ Because whoever this dark racer was, he wasn’t the man Steve had known. The man he’d loved. Number Thirteen was a shell, a hollow reflection of a glory long passed into legend, a laughable reverse image of the cocky, carefree, yet compassionate man he’d called his best friend. 

“Get up,” Number Thirteen demanded as Steve sank into the snow, gasping like a landed fish. Even through the haze of his pain, Steve could sense the change in the other racer’s voice—the cold, hard case was cracking, revealing the confusion and conflict beneath. “Get up, or I’ll kill you.” The assassin took a step closer, his finger brushing the trigger lightly. 

“Then do it, Buck,” Steve heard himself say, his senses fading like breath on glass, “’cause I’m with you to the end of the line.” 

In his half conscious state between life and death, pain and peace, Steve waited for the shot to come. 

. . . . . . 

Number Thirteen stared down at the blonde racer lying at his feet, the pad of his gloved pointer finger still resting lightly against the trigger. Despite the voice in his head shrieking at him to _end it, end it, END IT,_ he found that he couldn’t bring himself to kill this man; that there was something so innocent and heartbreaking about the half-formed expression on Number Seventeen’s face that even a hardened assassin would feel like a monster for hurting him. 

At this point, Number Seventeen had fallen to his knees, crouched in the snow in front of the assassin with his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. Number Thirteen watched him struggle for breath, considering, waiting. Maybe killing this man wasn’t necessary after all. Maybe nature would take care of that without the assassin’s help. 

Number Seventeen sank deeper, slipping from his knees onto his chest. He was gasping even harder now, blue eyes wide and slightly glazed in the moonlight. But despite his obvious near-unconsciousness, Number Seventeen was still holding his head up to look at the assassin, something like shock and disbelief painted across his pale face. 

“Get up,” Number Thirteen found himself saying, his voice low and rough out of habit rather than actual anger. “Get up, or I’ll kill you.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, silently approaching his failing victim. 

“Then do it, Buck,” the blonde racer said, his voice a broken whisper. “’cause I’m with you to the end of the line.” 

After that, the assassin wasn’t entirely sure what happened. Everything blurred as tears sprung unbidden to his eyes, a lance of pain shooting through his skull. He dropped to his knees in the snow beside Number Seventeen, the gun discarded and immediately forgotten, and pressed his palms to either side of his head. Pain like he had never know flashed in lightning strikes of agony through his mind, tearing at his mental barriers and breaking them down as easily as twig teepees. Moments, images chased each other in rapid succession through the assassin’s brain, lost shards of memory sharp enough to cut him to pieces. 

At the same moment, Number Seventeen’s eyes slid closed, his breath leaving his body in short, pained gasps. A blur of white and grey fur roughly resembling a husky launched itself at its master’s fallen body, and after a moment of confusion, the assassin realized that Number Seventeen’s lead dog had thrown itself over Number Seventeen’s rapidly cooling form. 

“Des,” the assassin found himself saying, his voice cracking like a dropped mirror as he collected himself enough to stand. “Desna, c’mere, girl. C’mere, I won’t hurt you.” 

The dog responded with a long, drawn-out whine and a wary flick of her ears. She dropped her head across Number Seventeen’s chest, curling her body against the fallen racer’s injured side. When the assassin attempted to approach them, she lifted her lip and growled, eyes flashing blue and brown fire. A warning. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Number Thirteen found himself whispering, and he was surprised to find that he meant every word. “I need to…” He broke off, realizing he was talking to an animal that, more likely than not, didn’t understand more than a few words of English. Swallowing, he continued anyway. “I need to get him warm. So stand down, Des. I won’t hurt him. I promise.” The last words came out more broken than he’d meant, and he realized that he was promising himself more than anyone. _I won't hurt him. I'll protect him. I'll stand with him. I'll be with him to the end of the line._ The words haunted him like a ghost; like the ghost of someone long-dead who comes to you only in your darkest nightmares. The memory itself was elusive, too hard to pin down, but Number Thirteen knew that those words were important. Whatever happened now, he had to hold on to them. And he had to keep the blonde man in front of him from bleeding out. 

The dog—Desna—finally backed away, her keen almond eyes never wavering from his as she stared him down. _You hurt him,_ her gaze said, _and you’re a dead man._ Number Thirteen didn’t doubt it for a moment. 

Hoisting Number Seventeen’s limp form into his arms proved harder than the assassin had expected. The familiar-but-not-familiar racer was heavier than he looked, which probably had something to do with the fact that he was wearing twenty pounds of snow gear and was totally dead to the world. 

There was a tiny cave in the rock cliff not twenty paces from where Number Seventeen had fallen, and the assassin carried the injured racer there at once. Setting him down on the stone, he crouched beside him and opened his coat, fishing in his pocket for a headlight. He found one and propped it on his knee, looking down at the dark stain spreading across Number Seventeen’s side with a growing sense of panic. _He needs a professional medic,_ he thought, before realizing that he himself actually had quite extensive knowledge of human anatomy. Of course, he had always used this knowledge to hurt rather than heal, but this was different. _This man is important._ He didn’t know why, and he certainly didn’t know why he cared. What he did know was that if he didn’t stabilize Number Seventeen’s condition and get him warmed up soon, he was going to lose him. 

Instinct, that’s what it was. He had given up on reason and given in to his barest, deepest, most ingrained and basic instincts. _Save him. Keep him safe. Protect him at all costs._ Maybe he was going crazy, but if he was, it didn’t matter. The feelings were too strong to ignore, even if he’d wanted to. 

Desna hadn’t followed the assassin to the cave, and he wondered vaguely if she’d returned to the rest of the team. He assumed they were still up on the ridge, probably panicking and fighting now that both their human and team leader had disappeared. In a rush of confusing pride, he recognized the bravery and unconditional loyalty that must have driven Des to fight her way out of the harness and come to her racer’s rescue. 

Number Seventeen’s soft groan snapped the assassin’s attention back to the task at hand, and with rough but careful hands he tugged back the blonde racer’s bloody shirt and began cleaning the ragged wound across his bruised and possibly broken ribs. Thankfully, Number Thirteen still had a small bottle of antiseptic in his pocket, along with a needle and some thick thread. It took the assassin much longer than it should have to thread the needle, and it was only then that he realized his hands were shaking. _That’s never happened before,_ he thought. At least, he didn’t think it had. But then again, no target had ever said something that brought him to his knees. Literally. 

Once he had finished cleaning and stitching the gash, Number Thirteen shrugged off his coat and tucked it around Number Seventeen, hoping it would be enough. At least until he could make a trip back to his own sled and get the rest of his supplies. Unfortunately, there was no way a team of huskies would be able to make it down the slope without falling, never mind pulling a sled. Which meant that the assassin would have to make the trip to the sled on foot, and return carrying the supplies the same way. It wasn’t optimum, but then again, this whole mission was quickly turning into the least-optimum thing Number Thirteen had ever been part of. 

“I’ll be back,” he said to the unconscious form on the ground. Shaking his head slightly to clear his mind, he turned away and headed for the cave’s entrance. _What are you doing?_ a shrill, furious voice screamed in his mind. _End it! Finish him! Do it! DO IT!_ Gritting his teeth, he stubbornly ignored it, steeling himself as if for battle as he stepped out into the frigid winter’s night.


	7. Echo of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is shorter than usual, but I have a Spanish test this coming week so I haven't had as much time for writing. Which means I may or may not be able to do a chapter this upcoming week (but I hope I will!)

Everything hurt, and time seemed to have spiraled into nonexistence as Steve slowly returned to consciousness. Half-faded fever dreams were accented by the agony in his chest and side, spikes of confusion and terror shooting through his thoughts like the stings of a thousand angry hornets. He wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead, breathing or choking on air. And yet there was something important forcing its way back into his mind, a twisted mass of feeling that glowed with _hope_ and _pain_ and _loss_ and _love…_

Gentle fingers traced Steve’s jaw, and he instinctively tilted his head back to lean into the touch. A soft sound forced itself between his lips, halfway between a groan and a sigh. At once, the touch was gone. Disappointed, Steve struggled to open his eyes, suddenly desperate to return to the waking world. 

“Bucky,” he breathed as his vision cleared and he recognized the figure kneeling beside him. “Buck, you’re alive! Oh god, you’re alive.” He struggled to sit up, but was stopped by a hand splayed over his heart. He winced at the firm pressure on his uninjured ribs, allowing himself to be pushed back down onto the foam pad. 

Bucky had set a lantern at the center of the cave, and the dull electric glow highlighted the roughness of his young face. He hadn’t replaced the mask, although there were faint marks on his cheeks from where it had rubbed against his skin. He looked exhausted, Steve noted, and with a pang of concern he wondered how long it had been since his friend had slept. 

“Buck,” Steve managed to get out between shaky breaths, “that really you? Or is this some crazy hallucination?” He laughed darkly at his own suggestion, his ribs flaring with pain at the unnecessary movement. 

“Shut up, Steve,” Bucky said, and the words were harsh enough to make Steve flinch. But at least Bucky had remembered his old friend’s name, and that was a victory, even if the easy friendship they’d shared before Bucky’s fall seemed to have disappeared completely. “Just… just don’t talk to me, okay?” Bucky sounded angry, but Steve could tell that he was masking a much more complicated cocktail of emotions. He was hiding behind the artificial shield of his words, hiding the confusion and fear that Steve could read so easily despite the assassin’s best efforts. 

“Okay,” Steve replied, letting his head fall back against the sleeping pad. He shivered involuntarily, and with a dull pang of fear, he realized that he could no longer feel his feet or hands. “Think I’m freezing here, Buck,” he murmured, more to himself than to the silent racer crouched beside him. 

But Bucky must have heard, because an instant later he was gone. Before Steve could begin to protest his absence, he had returned, a tightly rolled sleeping bag in his hands. Steve watched as the other racer unrolled the thick bag and spread it out on the ground, distantly aware that the numbness in his limbs was spreading to his torso. 

“Move,” Bucky demanded, his voice softer but no less guarded. 

Steve struggled to shift off the sleeping pad, gasping through clenched teeth as the movement jarred his broken ribs. He felt rather than saw Bucky’s gaze flicker to his face, assessing, and a moment later the assassin had moved in and lifted Steve clean off the ground and into his arms. 

“What’re you doing?” Steve muttered, his head swimming from the unexpected movement. Instinctively he pushed at his friend’s chest, a warmly familiar exasperation filling him. “Put me down; I’m not a baby.” 

“You sure about that?” Bucky instantly retorted, and Steve looked up at him in surprise. The Winter Soldier looked just as confused as Steve felt, but for a second there had been a spark of something-- _Amusement? Fondness?_ \--in the Thirteenth racer’s otherwise icy gaze. But then Bucky shook his head and the moment was gone. Setting Steve down in the sleeping bag, he pushed the sleeping pad under it to provide extra warmth and padding and turned away. 

Steve closed his eyes as the lantern light flickered and the subtle warmth of the feather-stuffed bag surrounded him, trapping his own heat against his freezing body. “Thanks, Buck,” he whispered. He was already so far gone at this point that he wasn’t even sure if he’d said it out loud. 

Until he heard a murmured, “Go to sleep,” and felt a soft caress on his cheek. Like the brush of an angel’s feather, almost too light to register but filled with such love and concern that Steve felt warmth radiate through his body at even the slightest touch. 

Like a leaf settling on a still pond, he slipped gracefully into unconsciousness. 

. . . . . . 

The Winter Soldier rose to his feet as soon as Number Seventeen— _Steve_ , he corrected himself—was asleep. He headed for the cave’s exit, bracing one hand against the rough, naturally shaped wall. Bowing his head, he let out his breath in a long sigh, clenching the fingers of his left hand—the one made of metal rather than flesh—into a fist. Shattered images danced at the edge of his memory, teasing him like butterflies dodging a kitten’s paws. 

“Bucky,” the assassin heard Number Seventeen call in his sleep. Number Thirteen flinched at the obvious pain in the other racer’s voice, but couldn’t bring himself to return to the bed. _I know him,_ the Soldier thought, _but I don’t know who he was to me._

In his more than four years of service under HYDRA—a secret terrorist organization with bases all across the north—he had never once encountered someone he had recognized from his past life. Whoever he had been, whatever he had known, all of it had been lost when he fell. According to the HYDRA agents who found and rescued him, half dead and down one arm, he had suffered brain damage that had caused permanent amnesia. They’d told him it was hopeless, that they’d already determined there was nothing they could do to reverse the damage and return his memories. 

_Guess they were right. Nothing they could have done with all their fancy tech and brilliant scientists would have done what Number Seventeen’s done just by existing._

For four years he’d been their pet, their loyal soldier. He’d fought for them, risked his life for them, even killed for them on several occasions. They’d told him that the man he’d been before wasn’t worth bringing back, that the amnesia had been a blessing rather than a curse. That it was a chance for him to change the world for the better, to improve the human race by selectively exterminating unworthy populations and civilizations. Of course, they called the shots and decided who lived or died. He was simply a means to an end, a weapon to be wielded and used at their discretion. And although he’d always known this deep down, there was nothing he could do but obey. It was all he’d ever known. 

_No._ Number Thirteen grit his teeth, digging the gloved fingers of his right hand into the solid rock wall. _I was someone before this. I had a life._ He glanced over his shoulder at the softly illuminated face of Number Seven. _I knew him._

The assassin crossed the cave, kneeling beside the blonde racer. Removing the glove on his right hand, he cautiously placed one hand on Number Seven’s forehead. It was too hot, a fever spiking the other man’s temperature to dangerous levels. Swallowing hard against the rising panic threatening to freeze his heart, Number Thirteen settled down to keep vigil, his gaze never once leaving the blonde’s face. With a gentle brush of his fingertips, he wiped a strand of Number Seven’s fair hair back. “’s okay, Stevie,” he said aloud, even though he knew the other man couldn’t hear him, “I’m here.” 

In his sleep, Steve smiled faintly.


	8. Dangerous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late, but I had a lot of studying to do this week. Dx And this chapter is still a bit short compared to what I was hoping to be able to write, but I hope you like it anyway. ^)^ Thanks for all the kudos, ya'll!! :D

Steve jolted awake as the sound of barking dogs sliced through his fever dreams, pulling him mercilessly back to awareness. Blinking at the darkness that had fallen around him, he sat up, wincing and gritting his teeth as pain stabbed through his chest. But although the pain remained, the infection had abated, leaving him more awake then he’d been in what felt like a very long time. 

With one hand pressed against his wound and the other groping through the blackness for something to hold onto, he began to wonder if it had all been a dream. The ravine, the Winter Soldier, Bucky… had all of it been a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation, fever, and shock? 

“Steve?” Bucky’s lowered voice sounded nearby, and a moment later his gloved hand fell on Steve’s shoulder. The weight was somehow unnatural, as if Bucky’s hand belonged to someone else—too heavy? Too cold? In his feverish state, Steve couldn’t quite place it, but he was sure that it didn’t feel right. He’d know the feeling of Bucky’s hands anywhere, and this touch was strange and unfamiliar. 

“Bucky,” Steve murmured, turning to his friend in the darkness. “Where are we?” His memory was hazy, but he could dimly recall a flickering electric lantern and his friend’s voice in his dreams as he drifted in and out of consciousness. 

“In a cliff,” Bucky replied. 

“What?” Steve tried to comprehend this statement, unsure if Bucky was intentionally trying to confuse him. “Wait. We’re in a cave, right?” 

Bucky didn’t reply. His hand fell from Steve’s shoulder, and the blonde racer could hear the assassin’s footsteps retreating deeper into the cave. 

“Wait, Buck,” Steve tried to follow and almost tripped over the camping bed sprawled at his feet. Shivering slightly, he tucked his chin into the collar of his coat and carefully felt his way forward, unsure if there were stalagmites in this cave and completely unwilling to find out. 

“Stop moving,” Bucky demanded in a low, intense tone. “There’s someone out there. He has a gun.” 

Steve paused for a moment, then crept forward until he was shoulder to shoulder with Bucky at the entrance to the cave. The very faint light of the half-covered moon provided just enough light to make out silhouettes in the snow outside, and with a shock of confusion, Steve recognized the outline of another human. How Bucky knew that it—or rather, _he_ —had a gun, was a mystery. 

“Who is he?” Steve questioned under his breath, trusting that Bucky would catch the barely audible words. 

Bucky shook his head, crouching lower and pressing himself against the cave wall. “He must’ve followed me. To make sure everything’s going according to plan.” 

“What plan?” Steve whispered, and for the first time since finding his best friend he realized he had no idea where Bucky had been for the past four years. 

Bucky didn’t answer, and even in the dark Steve could tell that the question had made the other racer uncomfortable. “C’mon,” he muttered, backing away as the silhouette in the snow stepped closer to where they stood, “we’ve gotta get out of here.” 

Steve wanted to press him for answers, but forced aside his worry and curiosity in favor of following Number Thirteen deeper into the cave. When they were both pressed against the far wall, presumably out of hearing range of the man outside, he hazarded to ask, “Is he dangerous?” 

Bucky was silent for a long moment. “One of the most dangerous men alive,” he replied in what could only be described as a soft growl. “I’m not even sure I could take him out without a lot of trouble.” 

Steve swallowed, nervously running his fingers over the furry trim of his hood. He took a deep, shaky breath, wincing as the pain in his chest flared suddenly white-hot. “Look,” he said through gritted teeth, “I know you’re on some kind of mission, Buck. That you’re not here to race. And whatever happened to you, I’m gonna find out who’s responsible and go after them. I promise. But right now I’m here to run, and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. No matter what happens, I’m gonna finish this.” 

He couldn’t see Bucky’s face in the dark, but he could feel the other man’s gaze on him. “Dammit, Rogers. How the hell are you still the crazy one?” 

Grinning like he hadn’t in years, Steve shook his head. “No idea, Buck. But don’t tell me you don’t love it.” 

“I didn’t say I didn’t,” Bucky shot back, and there was the hint of a smile in his voice. 

“So what do we do about him?” Steve gestured toward the front of the cave, pressing his shoulders against the cool stone wall and allowing himself a moment to gather his strength. It seemed inevitable that a move would have to be made, and soon. They couldn’t stay trapped inside forever. 

“His name’s Agent Ranger,” Bucky’s voice had sunk back to a low growl, “And I’m gonna kill him. It’s not like he’s officially in the race. No one’ll miss him.” 

“Wait, Bucky,” Steve grabbed his friend’s arm as Number Thirteen started forward, pulling the assassin back a few paces. “Maybe there’s another way. We could knock him out and tie him up; tell the hosts at the next checkpoint where to pick him up. Hand him over to the authorities and let them deal with it.” 

“No. He’s too much of a liability. He escapes, and you’re dead. And me… They’ll drag me back to HYDRA, and God doesn’t even know what’ll happen then. Best case scenario, more than a fourth of the world’s population is exterminated. Worst case…” Bucky trailed off, and Steve felt him shudder. “It’s not worth it. I can’t risk letting him get away.” 

Stepping back, Steve released his death-grip on Bucky’s coat, letting his shoulders fall in resignation. “Be careful,” he whispered, hearing his own anxiety and concern in these two strained words. 

“Hey,” Bucky slid along the wall toward the cave mouth, shooting Steve a quick smile as he went, “I’m not the one with zero self preservation instincts.” 

And then he was gone, slipping out into the snow and out of Steve’s sight. 

. . . . . . 

The Winter Soldier circled his target— _Agent Dex Ranger, Level 3 assassin with specific training in tracking and short-range weapons,_ his mind supplied him—like a cougar stalking a deer. Keeping his head low and his gun cocked and ready, he looked for the perfect place to take a shot. 

“Number Thirteen!” Agent Ranger yelled, and Number Thirteen saw that the other man had approached the cave, standing with his back to the wilderness. “I see your prints in the snow, Number Thirteen. I see the blood. Did you finish him, then? Number Seventeen. Is he dead?” 

_No,_ the Winter Soldier thought, _but you’re here to take his place._

Agent Ranger threw up his hands in obvious exasperation, shaking his head and letting out a huge puff of breath into the frigid air. “Fine, Thirteen! Be like that. But I’m gonna tell the Commander that…” 

Number Thirteen considered shooting him, but thought the sound of the report might draw unwanted attention. So as the Agent uttered these last words, the hidden assassin pulled a long, slender knife from his belt and sent it soaring across the clearing with a practiced flick of his wrist. The weapon imbedded itself silently in the back of Ranger’s neck, cutting off his impatient rambling immediately. The agent fell facedown into the snow, a dazed expression on his face. Red blood spattered the white landscape, flecks of Ranger’s life spreading like coffee stains as the man’s neck spurted. 

When the moment was over and Ranger was dead, the Winter Soldier stepped out of the cover of the woods and approached the body, bent on retrieving his knife. He only had a few left, and he couldn’t afford to lose any weapons unless he absolutely had to. 

Agent Ranger’s eyes were closed, a thin trickle of blood dripping over his parted lips. The fingers of his right hand were twitching slightly, but other than that, he was completely still. Number Thirteen knelt beside the body, turning him over and reaching for the knife in the back of Ranger’s neck. 

Just as it registered that the knife was no longer where it had struck, the Winter Soldier felt a sharp pain in his side. Looking down in shock, he saw Ranger’s hand fall from the hilt of the deadly weapon, which was buried deep between Thirteen’s fifth and sixth ribs on his left side. 

“Traitor,” Ranger hissed, blood gleaming on his bared teeth. His eyes rolled back as his hand fell limply onto his chest, and his body shuddered twice before he was still. 

Bucky gripped the knife in his metal fist as blood seeped around the blade, staining his dark jacket and dripping into the snow. His head spun, shock coursing through him. The pain was a distant throbbing in his chest, mostly concealed by the numbness spreading through his body. Breathing in quick, shallow breaths, he fell back beside the body of his fallen enemy, his eyes fixing on the faint, dim light of the North Star. _I’m sorry, Steve,_ he thought, consciousness slipping through his grasp as the scarlet stain spread across his chest, _but it looks like you’re gonna have to save yourself._

High above, the North Star winked and blinked out, obscured by thick, dark clouds. Letting out his breath in a cloud of steamy white, Bucky let his eyes close as the numbness overcame him.


	9. Aftershock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know this leaves off in a reaaaally bad place so I'm apologizing in advance for that. Dx I am a horrible person, I know! Also, I'm really, really, REALLY hoping to have some more writing time in the near future, which will probably mean more reliable updates again! Yaaay! xD Because that's how I like to spend my free time--writing about idiot boyfriends traversing the Alaskan wilderness together. ;D Anyway, thanks again for all the comments and kudos everyone! You're all awesome. ^)^

What felt like years passed as Steve waited just inside the cave, straining to make out what was happening in the darkness outside. The moon and stars had been completely obscured by a thick mass of clouds rolling in from the far north, foiling his every attempt to figure out what was taking so long. _This isn’t right,_ he thought as the minutes dragged on and he came closer and closer to panic. _I have to make sure he’s ok._ Biting his lip in agitation, he pulled his coat closer against his body. Wincing, he gingerly pressed one hand to the wound in his side, stifling a groan as pain immediately wracked his ribs and left flank. _If I go out there, I won’t be much help. I’d probably just distract Bucky and get us both killed._ The truth was a harsh one, and he hated it, but the only reasonable thing he could do for the time being was lay low and pray to any deity that might be listening that his friend would be okay. 

As time went on, Steve’s half-crouched stance became a half-slumped mess, one hand pressed against the cave wall and the other over his injured side. Lights danced before his vision, tiny balls of blue flame like a thousand stars streaking through a pitch black sky. Distantly he knew that the hallucinations had returned, but in his half-conscious daze he couldn’t have cared less. Eyes sliding shut, he fell to his knees and finally curled into a ball on his side, head pillowed on his arms as exhaustion and blood loss got the best of him once more. 

When he awoke again it was still dark out, so at least it couldn’t have been more than a couple hours. Lifting his head and looking around blearily, he was surprised to find himself hunched at the mouth of a cave with only a dying electric lantern keeping him company, and for a moment he was confused and a little shocked. 

And then it all came back in a painful rush. “Bucky?” he said, his voice cracking from the effects of frigid air on the interior of his throat. There was no answer but the distant sighing of the night wind through the trees. 

Leaping to his feet, Steve felt the first real waves of panic wash over him. With a gasp of pain, he steadied himself against the cave wall, closing his eyes as blood pounded in his ears. He felt utterly destroyed. If a Yeti had used him as a shovel to dig out an ice cave, he probably would have felt better than he currently did, he concluded. 

The sharp cry of some sort of night hawk snapped him out of his dazed state. Lifting his head with momentous effort, he moved to the mouth of the cave and looked out into the clearing. What he saw made his blood run cold and his mouth go dry with fear. The man with the gun—Ranger, Bucky had called him—lay on his back in the snow, a sick black stain spreading in a halo around his blood-matted hair and a thin dusting of fresh snow on his clothes. Ranger’s eyes stared vacantly up at the stormy night sky, glassy and cold. But that wasn’t the thing that terrified Steve. It was the tiny, cruel curve of Ranger’s lips—however he’d died, Ranger must have gotten something he wanted first. Taking a deep breath, Steve moved into the dim clearing, unable to take his eyes off of the dead man’s face. As he got closer, he almost tripped over a second body in the snow, as cold and silent as the first. Freezing in his tracks, Steve clenched his fists and gritted his teeth hard. _Bucky._

Bucky was half-curled into a ball in the snow, fresh flakes dusting his black jacket. His eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted, the first signs of frostbite showing on his exposed skin. With a pang of horror, Steve remembered that Bucky had taken off his larger coat and given it to Steve to keep him warm while he slept. Without his outer layer to keep him warm, Bucky must be frozen solid, even if he’d only been out there for less than an hour… 

Dropping to his knees beside his friend, Steve carefully reached out and placed one hand on Bucky’s cheek. Bucky’s skin was as cold as death, and for one horrible moment Steve was sure that Bucky was gone again. But then the dark haired racer groaned slightly and shifted in the snow, one hand coming up to wrap around Steve’s wrist. Steve stared down at the strong fingers curling around his arm, eyes widening slightly as he caught a glimpse of metal under the glove. _I thought it felt strange,_ he thought numbly as realization dawned on him. 

“Steve?” Bucky murmured, and his grip on Steve’s wrist tightened slightly, pressing the blonde’s hand harder against his cheek. “’m cold.” 

“Jesus, Buck, I know,” Steve whispered, his eyes pricking uncomfortably. “What the hell happened to you?” 

Bucky’s eyes opened one at a time, like a cat waking from a particularly deep sleep. There was a distant look in them, as if he hadn’t quite decided if he wanted to be conscious or not. “Ranger,” he managed. With a sigh, he released his grip on Steve’s arm, his metal hand falling with a dull _thunk_ of leather and metal. “Doesn’t matter now. He‘s dead. It’s over.” 

“No,” Steve snarled as Bucky’s eyes slid shut again and the brunette let out a long, ragged breath, “you’re not allowed to sleep right now. You got that? C’mon, Bucky, stay awake!” There was no reaction from Number Thirteen, and the fear Steve had been trying so desperately to keep at bay returned with a vengeance. Gasping with pain as his own injury throbbed dully, Steve reached one arm under and one over Bucky’s body and half lifted, half dragged his friend back toward the cave. 

And that’s when he saw the blood. A thick trail of it, smeared across the snow in the wake of Bucky’s body. A shock of pure adrenaline and panic shot through Steve at the sight of it, and he set Bucky down immediately. Turning him over, Steve slid his hands carefully across his friend’s body, searching desperately for the source of the crimson stains. When his fingers finally wrapped around the hilt of a throwing knife, he froze and took a moment to collect himself. _It’s in his chest,_ he realized with horror. _Left side. Close to the heart. Too close._ Steve was no doctor, and he was painfully aware of that fact, but he knew that this situation was worse than anything he could have imagined. Of course he’d had enough wilderness survival training to prepare him for the trials of the Great Race, but this wasn’t anything like what he’d prepared for. This wasn’t a broken bone or a twisted ankle; this was a war against death itself. And although Steve had never been one to back down from a fight, he’d never wanted to fight a war. 

Bucky seemed to be half-conscious again, and they were so close to the cave. If Steve could just get Bucky inside, he could warm him up and then maybe there’d be a chance… 

“I’m so sorry, Buck,” Steve said as he hoisted Bucky’s body into his arms again and continued the slow, painful journey toward shelter. He wasn’t even sure if Bucky could hear him, but it made him feel better to talk out loud. “Just a couple more feet. Almost there, okay?” 

The cave wasn’t much warmer than the outside world, but at least the camping bed was still in working condition. The lantern was flickering and close to death, but its dull green-blue light was better than unbroken darkness. 

As soon as Bucky was inside, Steve quickly set about removing Bucky’s wet gloves, boots, and jacket, setting them aside in a messy heap. Carefully maneuvering his friend into the sleeping bag, he settled down on his knees to keep vigil. _When he wakes up,_ he promised himself, _I can ask him what to do. I’m sure he’ll know better than me._

But Bucky didn’t wake up. Instead he launched from silent-and-frozen to feverish-and-screaming in an alarmingly short amount of time, almost tearing apart the sleeping bag as he thrashed and cried out. Steve did his best to keep Bucky from rolling onto the knife and causing further damage, but it seemed that the more he tried to restrain him, the harder Bucky fought. 

Finally, exhausted and unable to do anything more, Steve simply collapsed beside his friend with one arm over Bucky’s stomach and the other between Bucky’s head and the rock-hard ground. The heat coming off of the dark-haired racer was incredible, like there was a fire burning out of control in his friend’s body. Steve hated it, but there was nothing he could do except wait and hope that the fever would break sooner rather than later. 

And that was the worst—waiting. Helpless, terrified that any of Bucky’s labored breathes could be the last. Terrified that he would eventually fade and leave Steve alone again. Steve was sure he couldn’t face that again if it happened. If Bucky was gone for good, Steve knew it would be over for the both of them. 

With a dull feeling of desperation crushing his heart, Steve rested his head on Bucky’s shoulder and fell into a troubled sleep.


	10. Morning's Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I got this chapter done a lot early than I planned to, and it's a bit longer than usual as well. Mostly because I couldn't stand leaving off where I did in the last chapter for a whole week, and because I might not have time to write for a week or two after this due to cosplay making for an upcoming convention. I wanted to make sure I posted something before that! :D Anyway, I really hope you enjoy this chapter, even if it's a bit angsty. ^)^

Steve dreamed in vivid colors, flashes of scarlet and gold spattering across the landscape of his mind. Thick, heavy warmth surrounded him, like a cocoon of sunlight and silk. Something soft brushed his face, and a gust of hot air pooled in the hollow of his throat. As he slowly came back to consciousness, he opened his eyes and lifted his head, looking around for the source of the strange warmth. At first he could see nothing in the nearly pitch-blackness, but as the sun began to rise outside, dull beams of light illuminated even the furthest wall of the cave and revealed the heat’s source. 

Dogs. Twenty-eight of them, a tangle of paws and muzzles and gently rising flanks sprawled from the cave’s mouth to its back wall. Among them Steve recognized his own team, intermingled with what he guessed was Bucky’s team. Closest to Steve was Desna, who had fallen asleep with her head on his chest and her nose resting just under his chin. Although her eyes were closed, her ears flicked back and forth and she was snuffling gently in her sleep. Long whiskers brushed Steve’s jaw as she yawned, and a moment later her bright eyes slowly opened. 

“Hey, Des,” Steve whispered, his voice slightly rough from disuse. “Good girl.” With great effort, he lifted one hand and stroked his lead dog’s bristling neck. “I always knew you were the best dog in the race.” 

Desna whined and lifted her head, nuzzling the bloodstained fingers of his right hand. Her long pink tongue flicked against her nose, a sign that she was anxious, and she pushed herself up into a sitting position. Ice-blue eyes stared intently down at Steve, the dog’s silent message clearer than if Desna had spoken it aloud: _What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, my foolish human?_ Steve liked to imagine that these words would have been accompanied by an affectionately exasperated inflection, as Desna’s twitching ears suggested. 

Steve propped himself up on one arm, groaning at the strain this put on his bruised and battered ribs. The dull throbbing in his side, which had been blissfully absent during the night returned full-force and Steve collapsed back onto the ground with a sharp gasp of pain. 

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice was barely audible, the word half-formed but still recognizable. He sounded lost, scared. But at least he wasn’t dead. 

Steve turned toward Bucky immediately, and was overwhelmed with relief when he saw that his friend’s eyes were open and focused. Although there was a pained expression on Bucky’s face, he was conscious and breathing. And, thanks to the enormous black husky pressed against his side, most likely very warm. 

Moving closer to Bucky, Steve pulled the glove off his right hand and pressed his fingers against the pulse-point on his friend’s throat. Bucky’s pulse was weak but regular, his skin no longer blazing with unnatural heat. Letting out a breath of relief, Steve offered Bucky a strained smile. “How’re you feeling?” he asked. 

“Like there’s a knife in my side,” Bucky shot back, and Steve had to admit that he’d walked right into that one. 

“I didn’t want to take it out,” Steve could hear the stress he was trying so hard to conceal leaking into his words; “I wanted to ask you first. You were always better at first aid.” 

Number Thirteen attempted to lift himself out of the sleeping bag, strands of dark hair sticking to the glistening sheen of sweat on his cheeks and forehead. The hilt of the knife became visible as Bucky pushed the cover off, and Steve could see that the weapon was even more precariously placed than he had previously believed. The fabric around it was stained a color somewhere between scarlet and black, a dark trickle of fresh blood seeping out around the imbedded blade. 

“We have to get that out,” Steve said, watching Bucky as his friend examined the damage. “You can’t ride to the next checkpoint with a knife in your ribs.” 

“No, I can’t,” Bucky replied, and there was a guarded look on his face. As if the fragile trust Steve had carefully cultivated over the past twenty-four hours had suddenly disappeared, leaving behind the cold, calculating assassin who had replaced his friend nearly four years ago. But thankfully the moment didn’t last, and Bucky’s expression shifted from distrust to disgust almost immediately. Number Thirteen let himself fall back onto the camping bed with a rough noise of pain, eyes sliding shut as a shiver went through him. “Leave me here, Rogers. I’m done for.” 

Steve gritted his teeth hard, shaking his head and setting his jaw stubbornly. “No way, Buck. You wanna stay here? Fine. But I’m not leaving. I just got you back, and I’m not gonna lose you again.” 

Bucky’s eyes slowly opened and he looked up at Steve, a crease between his brows. There was a long moment of silence, and Steve got the distinct and horrible feeling that Bucky was searching his face for an explanation. “Why?” Number Thirteen asked, frowning slightly. “I’m broken, Steve. I’m broken and there’s no fixing me.” 

Steve closed his eyes, inhaling shakily. Beside him, Desna gave an agitated whine and nudged his shoulder with her muzzle. Reaching over, he threaded the bare fingers of his right hand through her collar, holding on tight and trying hard not to break down. Now wasn’t the time; there would be plenty of opportunities to scream and curse fate once they were safe. 

When Steve’s eyes opened again he felt relatively composed, although the painful prickling of tears hadn’t quite faded. “Don’t say that, Bucky. Don’t ever say that. I don’t care if you’re not the same guy I knew, or if you never will be. I don’t care if you think that you’re broken. I’m with you to the end of the line, and nothing is ever going to change that.” 

Bucky looked up at him with something akin to wonder in his eyes. A tiny smile formed on his lips, and a moment later all the tension and stress seemed to drain from his body. “Okay,” he agreed, his voice breaking slightly on the single syllable. “Guess we should get that knife out, then.” 

Steve nodded, relieved. “Any chance you might know how to do that?” 

“Well,” Bucky began, running his fingers thoughtfully over the hilt, “usually you wouldn’t remove a weapon like this unless you had something to immediately stop the bleeding, but since you’re also not supposed to move around a lot if you have a knife in you, it has to come out.” He paused, taking a couple shallow, careful breaths before continuing. “I think I can get it myself, but I’ll need you to be ready to clean the cut and patch it up once I’m done. If I’m out, which I might be, it’ll be up to you to do everything else. You okay with that?” 

Steve swallowed the sudden nervousness that ripped through him like a blade of ice, and nodded. “Do you… uh, do you want something to bite down on?” 

Bucky shook his head. “I can handle it,” the assassin said, and Steve felt a pang of anger and pain that this was something Bucky had grown so used to. 

Five minutes of clenched jaws and half-muffled groans later, the knife was out and Bucky was lying on his back panting and bleeding profusely. A muted, faraway look had come into his eyes, and his breathing had gone from shallow and steady to fast and heaving. 

“Bucky?” Steve said, fighting to keep his tone calm as his friend’s breathing became increasingly erratic. Leaning over Number Thirteen’s body, he pressed one hand to the deep wound as he struggled to tie a strip of fabric around the other man’s torso. “Bucky, I’m gonna go outside and get some snow, okay? I’ll be right back; I promise.” 

Forcing himself to his feet and doing his best not to pass out from the sudden, painful rush of blood to his head, he headed for the bright white glow outside the cave. Desna rose with him and walked at his side as he stepped carefully around the sleeping teams, nearly tripping once or twice on the half-chewed and tangled towropes stretched between them. 

Outside it was mid-morning, and the storm clouds of the previous night seemed to have been channeled off down the mountains to the north. Ahead rose the dangerous, steep and rocky Rainy Pass, which they would have to climb over in order to make it to the next checkpoint. Steve couldn’t help but feel pessimistic about the coming day’s journey, but he forced down his doubts and concentrated on gathering and melting snow. 

Back inside, Steve found Bucky curled into a ball inside the sleeping bag while the huge black wolf-dog, who Steve assumed was Number Thirteen’s leader, gently licked the knife wound. Steve’s first instinct was to shoo the dog away, but then he remembered that dog saliva—especially that of dogs with wolf blood—had extraordinary anti-bacterial properties that could stave off even the most vicious infections. So instead he allowed the dog to continue its methodical cleaning, kneeling beside Bucky and gently peeling back the torn and blood-soaked fabric of his friend’s coat. Bucky seemed to be unconscious again, which was probably for the best. There was no point in him being awake and in pain, and besides, he desperately needed to rest and heal. 

“Des,” Steve called over his shoulder, and at once his lead dog was standing at his side, ears up and eyes shining. “Hold this, girl.” He held out a fresh strip of fabric from his coat, and the husky took it delicately between her teeth. Smiling tiredly, Steve stroked a hand over her forehead before turning his attention back to Bucky. The snow he’d been holding in his bare hand had melted into a puddle of slush, which he tipped onto a second piece of fabric. Gently cleaning the dirt from the injury, Steve reached back and retook the makeshift bandage from Desna’s mouth. His dog whined softly and held on for a second, but once she realized he wasn’t playing a game she released it at once. 

Bucky’s expression shifted from blank to pained as Steve cleaned and bandaged the wound, and Steve couldn’t help but feel guilty. _I shouldn’t have let him go alone,_ he berated himself. As irrational as he knew it was, he wished he had gone with Bucky to face Agent Ranger. Even if he himself had been killed, maybe Bucky would never have been hurt. 

Once the ordeal was over, Steve just wanted to curl up with the dogs and sleep for a year. But life wasn’t going to wait for him to rest, and there was a race to run and a half-dead assassin who needed him. So he summoned the last shreds of his energy and lifted Bucky into his arms, holding his unconscious friend against his chest as he made his way into the snowy clearing outside. The pain in Steve’s side from his bruised and possibly broken ribs distracted him almost to the point of complete dazedness, but thankfully he had Desna by his side to guide him safely through the drifts and back toward the sled on the trail high above. The rest of the two teams slowly rose to their feet and followed as Desna, Steve, Bucky and Bucky’s lead dog exited the cave, and soon Steve felt like some kind of canine Pied Piper. 

The slope was steep but manageable, and although it took considerable time and effort for Steve to drag himself and Bucky up the hill and back onto the trail, he managed to do so without incident. After hooking his team back up and placing Bucky carefully atop his sled, he dug through his supplies and found a first aid kit. If they were going to get more than a mile, both racers would need proper medical attention. Or at least something that would hold them until the next checkpoint. 

As Steve finished sewing up the hole in Bucky’s side and applying blood-clotting powder and antiseptic, the morning’s light streamed over Rainy Pass and painted the rocks and trees gold and white. The temperature had dropped as the cloud passed, leaving behind a clear but dangerously cold new day. 

Desna barked twice as Steve stepped onto the sled’s runners, and Steve took a deep breath in preparation of the long, arduous journey ahead. With twenty-eight dogs and two leaders running ahead of him, he was definitely in for an exciting ride. 

Giving the command to turn, Steve guided his mismatched team back down the dead-end path they’d come up. He sighed in relief when Desna and Bucky’s leader—who Steve had discovered was named Dexus—finally stepped back onto the main trail, once again heading determinedly for Nome. 

_We’re not beat yet,_ Steve thought as they flew down the trail in a whirl of paws, fur, and flashing fangs. _It’s a new day, and we’re still running. We can still do this. We can still win._

And looking down at Bucky lying alive and breathing on the sled, Steve actually believed for the first time in four years that everything was going to be okay.


	11. Calm Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaack! Comicon was awesome, and my Winter Soldier cosplay turned out better than I hoped, so all in all I've had a great last couple weeks. ^)^ And on top of it, I had some more time to write during Spring Break! So here's the latest chapter. Not much plot-wise happens, but it's not nearly as angsty as the past few chapters, which means that (thankfully) it didn't hurt me as much to write it. Anyway, I'm gonna stop ranting now! ^_^

Over the pass and down narrow chutes they flew, the jagged rocks rising like ancient stone statues on either side of the trail. The dogs were silent and swift, their padded paws thrumming rhythmically on worn stone and hard-packed snow. 

The sixth day of the race passed in a dream-like haze for Steve, the dark greens of mountain pines and the softer grays and browns of the Pass blending into a long and monotonous blur. Storm clouds overhead threatened to dump fresh snow onto the already precariously slippery slopes of the White Mountains, the fluffy grey mounds in the sky slowly growing darker with every passing minute. 

Rainy Pass, also known as “The Chute”, was notoriously the most dangerous part of the whole run. With little ground that was guaranteed safe for a sled to pass over, every step could be the last for Steve and his teams. So when they reached the Rohn checkpoint at the northern base of the White Mountains without incident, Steve was shocked and immensely thankful. Although, considering the luck he’d had at the beginning of The Chute, maybe fate was just trying to make it up to him. 

When the sled came to a full stop outside the Rohn lodge, another racer—Number Twenty-nine--who had just finished tying up his own team jogged over to help Steve tie up the dogs. Steve managed a pained smile and a mumbled ‘thanks’ as he hoisted Bucky off the sled and stumbled into the lodge. 

Inside, the lodge smelled like roasted garlic bread and salted ham. Steve breathed deeply, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth as his stomach growled loudly. He hadn’t even thought about food before, not when so much else had been going on. But as he settled Bucky’s unconscious body on one of the couches and threw himself down beside his friend, it finally hit him full force. 

“Oh, god!” a middle aged woman with dark hair tied up behind her head and kind brown eyes approached the two battered racers, her hands clasping and unclasping nervously as she took in the bloodstains and tears in their gear. “You’re hurt,” she said, a slight note of accusation in her voice. 

“Sorry,” Steve said, suddenly feeling very guilty about getting blood all over the floor and furniture. “Do you have any towels, or…?” 

She cut him off with a sharp shake of her head. “I’ll see if I can get a medic in here. Just… make yourselves comfortable.” She began to turn away, then added as an afterthought, “Are you hungry?” Her eyes flickered from Steve to Bucky, and she swallowed heavily. “What about him?” 

“He’s…” Steve reached out and placed on hand on Bucky’s forehead. The dark-haired racer made a soft noise of distress, turning his head to one side. “He’ll be hungry when he wakes up.” 

“Then wake him up,” the woman suggested, turning away and exiting the living area. 

Steve sighed, pushing himself up against the couch cushions and moving closer to Bucky. “Hey,” he said, putting one hand on his friend’s flesh-and-blood shoulder and squeezing hard. “C’mon, Buck. You’ve gotta wake up.” 

Bucky groaned loudly, more of a protest than a sound of discomfort. Turning over, he let out his breath in a deep sigh, and then flinched violently in pain. Starting upright, he looked around with wide eyes, traces of panic visible in the tight set of his jaw and the way his fists clenched in the fabric of the couch. 

“Whoa,” Steve put up his hands in a placating gesture. "You’re safe. It’s okay.” 

“Where are we?” Bucky asked, obviously disoriented and panicking. He blinked, looking around the wide, well-furnished room nervously. “Checkpoint?” 

Steve nodded. "Rohn.” 

Bucky stared at him, mouth slightly open. “We made it?” 

Steve nodded again. “And before you start, I didn’t almost get us killed.” 

“Not even once?” 

“Not even once.” 

Bucky smiled, or at least a close approximation. “Impressive, Rogers. Where did you learn to race like that?” 

Steve felt his heart drop, and he swallowed down the spike of painful sadness and loss that wedged itself in his throat. “You taught me,” he replied, ducking his head slightly. “We used to train together. When we were kids.” 

Bucky cocked an eyebrow, stretching out on the couch like a pampered cat so that his head was dangerously close to being in Steve’s lap. “Ah, hell, Stevie. We’re still kids now.” 

Steve grinned, feeling warmth spread through his chest at the use of his little-used childhood nickname. “Aren’t you almost twenty-seven?” 

A slight crease formed between Bucky’s eyebrows, and he shook his head. “Maybe. Seems about right.” 

The lodge-keeper returned at that moment, two heaping plates of food cradled in her palms. The smell of ham, garlic, and fresh bread became almost unbearable, this time accompanied by the fragrant smell of Chai hot chocolate. 

“Thank you so much,” Steve said earnestly as he took both plates and the two cups, setting one beside Bucky and the other on the couch armrest. He began to eat with gusto, nudging Bucky encouragingly until his friend did the same. 

“The medic will be here in about half an hour,” the woman announced. “Had to call him in from a couple checkpoints ahead. As long as the storm doesn’t start for a couple more hours, the helicopter shouldn’t have a problem. Also, you’ve got two teams hooked up to a single sled. What happened to Number Thirteen’s sled, then?” 

Steve glanced down at Bucky, frowning slightly. “I had to leave it. There was no way he could run on his own.” 

She sighed. “Well, I guess he’ll have to forfeit the race, then. I mean, even if he wasn’t injured, there’s no way he can run without a proper setup. And we don’t have enough resources here to properly resupply an entire team.” 

Bucky sat up at this, a mixture of irritation and spite in his gaze. “You just try keepin’ me off the trail.” 

“Look, Buck; she’s right,” Steve said, flinching at the dark look this earned him. “Even if you had a sled, you’re in no shape to…” 

“ _I’m_ in no shape? I’m not the one who fell off a fucking cliff!” 

“No, _you_ were stabbed in the chest by a trained killer,” Steve shot back. "Going back out would be suicide, and I can't..." 

“Boys,” the lodge-keeper interrupted, her expression shifting from exasperation to true annoyance in a millisecond. “Listen up. If either of you have or have had life-threatening injuries in the past week, it would be unprofessional and irresponsible of me to allow you to go back out there at all. It’s dangerous enough without testosterone-driven stupidity, and I can tell that you two have a lot of that between you.” She crossed her arms, raising her eyebrows as if silently daring them to protest. 

Steve set his jaw, preparing for a verbal showdown, but Bucky beat him to it. 

“No way,” the assassin sat up straighter, staring the lodge-keeper down. There was a tension in his shoulders and a spark in his eyes that invited no disagreement. “Throw me out of the race; fine. I’ll go quietly. But you can’t do that to him. You have any idea how long he’s been practicing for this? You disqualify him, and he’s just gonna get back in one way or another. Trust me. It'd be a waste of your time to try.” 

Steve fought back a smile, attempting to hide the rush of bittersweet gratitude that Bucky was stepping in to help even though it was likely that the assassin remembered very little of his history with Steve. 

The lodge-keeper looked torn between disapproval and intimidation, shifting nervously from one foot to another before letting her gaze drop from Bucky’s face. She let out a long sigh and shook her head. “Fine. But remember, he could get hurt. And if he does, don't say I didn't warn you.” 

“He can _always_ get hurt,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “It’s his superpower.” 

She sighed again, somehow managing to look even more done with the conversation than she had before. “Alright, but you two are taking your mandatory twenty-four hour rest period tonight. There’s no way in heaven or hell I’m letting anyone go until that medic shows up.” 

“So we can keep running?” Steve called after her as she walked away, just to confirm that he wouldn’t have to actually break any rules. Even though he intended to finish the race no matter what, he was hoping he could arrive at Nome with his dignity and reputation intact. 

“Not _we_ , Number Seven. Number Thirteen isn’t going anywhere. And to be quite honest, I’m extremely skeptical of allowing you to continue as it is. So please don’t try to argue any further points.” She was gone before he could even open his mouth to reply. 

“She seems like a fun gal,” Bucky said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. 

“Hey, you’d be crabby too if a couple of rough-looking guys burst into your lodge and bled all over your couch.” 

Bucky chuckled, then flinched and gritted his teeth. “Maybe she had a point, anyway. I need to rest, not run.” 

Steve bit his lip, considering. “Yeah, but…” 

“But I’m your screwed up best friend with amnesia who was recruited by a terrorist organization to murder people and maybe you shouldn’t let me out of your sight?” 

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Steve replied indignantly. “I mean, yeah it was, but not like that. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

“Such a sap, Rogers. I'll be fine. You just go out there and win for me, alright?” 

“Alright.” Steve sank down in the couch, tilting his head back and allowing his mind to drift toward unconsciousness. 

“B'sides,” Bucky yawned widely, stretching out again and resting the back of his head on Steve’s thigh, “we’ve gotta be here for twenty four hours before you’re allowed to go. And the medic is coming.” 

Steve nodded, smiling. Nestling down into the warmth of the couch cushions and resting his head on the armrest, he fell almost immediately into a deep sleep.


	12. Interrogation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter turned out a lot longer than I intended. xD Which isn't a bad thing, necessarily! I'm getting fairly close to the end of the first part of this series, so maybe just a couple more chapters in Uncrossing the Stars. ^)^ Thank you so much to everyone for the kudos! <3

The medic’s evaluation took nearly half an hour, and by the end of it the young doctor had a crease between his brows and a frown on his face. “You two are lucky to be alive,” he commented as he finished applying antiseptic, stitches, and bandages to Steve and Bucky’s injuries. “Especially him,” he jerked his head at Bucky, a hint of darkness in his gaze. “After taking a direct hit to the middle of his left ribcage like that, he should at least be unconscious or in critical condition.” 

Bucky, who had asked to be unconscious during the treatment of his injury, shifted in his drug-induced sleep and murmured something incomprehensible. Steve reached out to run hand across his friend’s hair, surreptitiously checking Bucky’s temperature as he brushed a strand of hair out of the other racer’s eyes. “Will he be okay?” he asked, trying to ignore the way his freshly repaired side was throbbing. “I mean, is there any permanent damage?” 

“Well,” the doctor put away his medical supplies and slung his bag over his shoulder, shrugging to accommodate the weight, “as far as I can tell, he’ll make a full recovery. And so will you, luckily. Although I’m really against you continuing the race in your condition. As I’m sure you’re quite aware.” 

Steve nodded. “I know. But I can’t give up.” 

The doctor frown deepened, but he tilted his head in acknowledgement. “It’s your choice. As long as Number Thirteen stays here.” 

“I know,” Steve agreed quickly. There was no way in hell he was going to drag Bucky out into the wilderness again if his friend had really come that close to dying. He couldn’t lose him. _Not again._

“Good we agree on one thing, at least,” the doctor let slip a polite smile. “I can see if Number Thirteen will consent to accompanying the next airlift to Nome, and you can meet back up with him there. Would that be satisfactory?” 

“Perfect.” Steve glanced down at Bucky, biting his bottom lip in contemplation. “If he refuses or tries to follow me for any reason, don’t let him. I can’t be the reason he gets hurt again.” 

“Don’t worry,” the doctor adjusted his bag, offering one last tight smile before exiting the room. “He’s not going anywhere without my say-so.” 

. . . . . . 

Blackness was all that there was. Nothingness, going on into eternity, wrapped around the assassin’s consciousness like a tarp woven of dark silk. Sound and color had disappeared into the void, blending and echoing before finally fading away altogether. The only thing that was was nothing, and for a moment that could have been an eternity, the assassin was thankful for the relief it brought. 

“Wake up.” A sharp sensation like the prickling of a thousand pins stung the assassin’s face, and his eyes snapped open immediately. It took a couple seconds more for him to completely come to his senses and realize what was happening, and even then he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the scene he found himself at the center of. 

The doctor who had patched up his and Steve’s injuries earlier was standing over him, hand raised for a second blow. Darkness had crept into the medic’s previously kind gaze and the assassin— _no,_ Bucky; he mentally corrected himself—was instinctively afraid. 

“Good, good,” the doctor turned away, toward the small silver table behind him. The room was small and sterile, like a prison cell that had been renovated and remade into a medical clinic. The walls were white and the lights too bright and unfiltered, like a surgery room. The doctor himself was dressed all in white, his hands wrapped in blue latex. 

As soon as the doctor’s back was turned, Bucky immediately sat up and tried to move toward him, thinking to throw him on the ground and demand answers. It was then that the former assassin discovered that his hands were tied firmly behind his back, the cuffs tightly secured to the wall. He wasn’t going anywhere, no matter how hard he struggled. 

“Ah, no, no,” the doctor rolled his eyes as he turned around, a scalpel in one hand and a needle full of sickly pink liquid in the other. “You’re not going anywhere. Well, not until I’m done with you.” 

“What the fuck do you want with me?” Bucky spat, trying desperately to keep himself from shaking. Lifting his chin, he met the doctor’s stony gaze defiantly. 

“I want you to come back to us,” the doctor said patronizingly, as if explaining a simple math problem to a young child. “Which you will once I’ve finished up here. I guarantee it.” 

“I guarantee that I’ll rip your fuckin’ hand off if you touch me,” Bucky shot back, sounding a lot more confident than he felt. 

The doctor’s smile widened slightly. “Now, now. No need to get violent. Either we can do this like civilized men, or I can shoot you up so full of chemicals you can’t move. It’s your choice.” 

“Fuck you.” 

The doctor sighed, allowing a drop of fluid to leak out of the tip of the syringe. “Hold still, or it _will_ hurt.” 

Bucky froze up as the doctor got closer, feeling tremors running down his legs and arms. His heart was pounding so fast it was almost a single blur of sound, bruising itself against his ribs as panic set in. “Get away from me,” he snarled, but the words came out shaky and desperate. He was cornered. There was no way out. 

The doctor seized him by the throat and pinned him forcefully against the wall, aligning the needle with his throat. “You’re the one who chose the painful way. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” the medic said, forcing his knee into Bucky’s stomach as the assassin struggled viciously. “Don’t move around so much. I’m not trying to hurt you. I want to help you forget, so that you don’t have to face your sins. Which you’ll have to, if you go on like you have. You’ve done terrible, terrible things, Soldier. Things that can destroy you. I can take that away. I can make you safe.” 

“I wouldn’t worry so much about him.” 

Bucky’s head jerked up at the sound of the familiar voice, jaw clenched as the tip of the needle came to a stop a centimeter from his throat. “Steve?” he managed to force out, struggling to breathe through the clenching in his chest. 

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” Steve repeated, stepping in behind the doctor even as the startled man spun around to face the blonde racer, “when you should be worrying about yourself.” 

“Listen…” the doctor started, but that was as far as he got. A second later he was spitting blood, his nose broken and his lip split wide open. He stumbled backward, tripping over his own medical table and falling against it. 

Bucky had never seen such intensity in Steve’s eyes. Not even—and he had to pause for a moment to savor the newly emerging memories—when they were kids and Steve made it their personal mission to get in fights with every bully between Anchorage and Nome. But this, this wasn’t a bully that Steve was facing down now. This was a cockroach, a slimy evil crawling thing that had far overstepped the boundary and was now going to pay the price. The blue fire in Steve’s gaze seemed to be burning a hole in the doctor’s skull, cooking his soul alive. 

“Listen,” the doctor slurred out, wincing in pain and raising one hand to caress his bleeding nose. “I’m just doing what I’m told. I was sent to pick up the Asset after his malfunction, and I…” 

Steve lunged forward, seizing the startled man by the front of his coat and pulling him to his feet. But instead of hitting him again, he let go, leaving the doctor swaying unsteadily and blinking nervously. Taking a step back, Steve paused and composed himself, his eyes closing and his chest heaving as he took a couple deep breaths. When his eyes opened again, he looked noticeably calmer, but the trembling in his fingertips betrayed the fury he was barely containing. “Tell me who you work for, and I won’t have you arrested,” he said, his tone flat and devoid of emotion. “If you were just doing your job, then you don’t have to be held responsible.” 

Bucky watched, still close to hyperventilating and shaking from adrenaline, as the look in doctor’s eyes shifted from terror to shrewd calculation. “Can you guarantee me safe evacuation back to the lower forty-eight states? And a guard to keep me safe from the organization?” 

Steve nodded, a muscle in his jaw ticking and his shoulders tense. “Do we have a deal?” 

“Yes, yes,” the doctor smiled, the expression slightly smug and ridiculously arrogant. He held out one gloved hand, raising his eyebrows and jerking his chin toward Steve. “We should seal it.” 

“I’m not touching you,” Steve replied. 

The doctor’s hand dropped. “HYDRA,” he said, “the organization calls itself HYDRA. But I’m sure your amnesiac boyfriend here told you that already.” 

Steve gave a short jerk of his head—affirmation. 

“Good, good. So his memories are coming back quickly enough. I guess it’s to be expected. Anyway, I’m sure what you want are names and locations. Secret plans and such.” 

“Whatever you know.” 

“HYDRA has a base in Nome. They sent the Winter Soldier down the trail to bring them a biological weapon. I don’t claim to know what it is, or how to use it, but I’m sure the Asset would have been filled in, as it was expected that he would be the one to release it. That’s all I know, to be quite honest. Nothing else is of any importance.” 

“Bucky?” Steve glanced at him, and Bucky saw a flash of pain and anger in his friend’s eyes when Steve’s gaze flickered to the cuffs. The blonde took another deep breath, calming himself once more. “Buck, do you know where the weapon is now?” 

“I hid it,” Bucky replied. “When we were in the cave.” 

“Is it easy to find?” Steve and the doctor asked simultaneously, and Bucky glanced between them uneasily. 

“No,” he replied. “Only I can find it. And I’m not going to. It’ll expire before anyone can get answers out of me.” 

Steve smiled, a hint of relief joining the anger and pain in his expression. “’kay, Buck. That’s good.” 

“Well, boys,” the doctor smirked at them, standing back and dabbing at the blood on his chin with the sleeve of his lab coat. “I suppose I should be off, then.” 

“You’re not going anywhere,” Steve said, his voice dangerously low. Before the doctor could do more than open his mouth to object, the blonde racer had knocked him out with a well-aimed punch to the head. 

“’cept prison, maybe,” Bucky added, forcing a half-smile. 

“Bucky,” Steve knelt beside the assassin, one hand on either side of Bucky’s face. “Are you hurt?” 

“Not any more than before,” Bucky answered. He was still shaking, and he knew that Steve could feel it, but the panic was already fading and the strange grogginess he’d felt after being drugged unconscious had been chased away by the adrenaline. 

“Good,” Steve breathed out. Turning back to the doctor’s sprawled form, Number Seventeen quickly located the keys to the cuffs and removed them in record time. “Let’s get outta here. I already called in the authorities; they’ll deal with _him_.” Steve spoke the last word like a curse, the fiery fury Bucky had glimpsed before flaring momentarily back to life. “We can get back to Anchorage, where you’ll be safe.” 

“No!” Bucky said, a little louder than he’d meant. His nerves were still frayed, his heart hammering fiercely. “No, Steve; you can’t give up the race because of me. I’ll go ahead to Nome, and meet you like we said.” 

“The medic said that HYDRA has a base in Nome. I can’t risk you…” 

“And I can’t risk _you_ ,” Bucky cut in. “Hell, maybe you’re right about Nome. Doesn’t mean I gotta go back to Anchorage.” 

“Wait. Do you…?” 

“I’m coming with you. We can run this together, Steve. I’m not as fragile as I used to be. Whatever HYDRA did to me after I fell, pain doesn’t bother me as much anymore.” 

“Thought I was supposed to be the stubborn crazy one, Buck. Besides, just ‘cause you can’t feel pain doesn’t mean…” 

“God dammit, Rogers! I can’t stay here. I can’t go to Nome. And you need someone to watch your ass out there. I’m not sitting this out. What if HYDRA comes after you, huh? I know how to deal with them a lot better than you.” 

Steve glanced at the unconscious doctor, cocking one eyebrow. “That’s debatable.” 

“Shut it,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’m coming. Got it?” 

“What about the regulations?” 

“Never seemed to slow you down before.” 

Steve sighed, scrubbing one hand across his face. “Fine. But you’re staying on the sled unless you absolutely have to walk. Deal?” 

“I’m not some maiden in distress. I can call my own shots.” 

“Fine,” Steve said, sighing heavily again. He rose to his full height, holding out a hand to help Bucky upright. “C’mon. Our twenty-four hour rest time is up. We should get back on the trail.” 

Bucky nodded, holding on to Steve’s hand a little longer than truly necessary to stay standing. “Lead the way, then.” 

As they made their way back out of the temporary laboratory and into the Rohn checkpoint lodge, Steve made sure to securely lock the HYDRA doctor in behind them.


	13. Rising Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last chapter of 'Uncrossing the Stars', which will be continued in 'Igniting the Stars.' I'm going to be taking a break from this story (possibly a very long break, but I will eventually get back to it!) because I've got to write another novel this summer and I also have other fanfic ideas I want to try out as well. ^)^ So sorry about the cliffhanger ending; I promise it will resolve in the next part of the series! Dx
> 
> Anyway, thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has read/left kudos/commented on this story!! I really, really appreciate the support. :3

An emergency police response helicopter was just landing as Bucky and Steve headed out of the Rohn checkpoint. The dogs—sixteen of them now that Bucky’s team had been airlifted back to Anchorage—ran out in front with their tongues lolling and their ears slicked back. They were eager to run, having spent most of the rest period sleeping or lying around outside the cabin. 

On the other hand, Steve was completely exhausted. Despite having rested for a solid twelve hours, the combination of physical and mental stress was beginning to get to him. He couldn’t help but think that it was his fault that Bucky had almost been kidnapped again, and it weighed heavily on his heart. _I can’t lose him again,_ he thought grimly. _I don’t think I could survive it if I did._

“Steve?” Bucky walked beside the sled, carefully watching the dogs for the first sign of a fight or tangle. His medium-length dark hair stuck out under the hood of his new jacket, which they had managed to snag on their way out of the lodge. Number Thirteen’s blue-grey eyes shimmered in the half-light of northern spring, brighter than any star Steve had ever seen and yet harboring concealed darkness. 

“Yeah, Buck?” 

“Maybe I should go back.” 

“I thought you were gonna be stubborn and insist on coming?” Steve teased, but in reality his heart had dropped into his stomach. Selfishly, he wanted Bucky with him, not willing to let his best friend out of sight after the consequences of their last separation. 

Bucky shook his head, frowning slightly. “Not back to Anchorage. I mean the weapon. Maybe I should go back for it.” 

“You hid it,” Steve reminded him, “it’s safe.” 

“What if it’s not?” Bucky stopped, turning to face Steve as the sled glided by. 

Sighing, Steve called the dogs to a halt, stepping off the sled and crossing his arms across his chest. “Is that a possibility? What was it, anyway?” 

“Biological warfare,” Bucky’s voice was carefully neutral. “There’s a major sickness spreading to the east of Nome, but the government is trying to keep it quiet until after the Race. So far no one in Nome has come down with it, but it’s spreading into Canada and doesn’t seem to be slowing down.” 

“So the sickness it the weapon?” 

Bucky shook his head. “No. HYDRA created it, but it’s not the weapon. The weapon is the antidote.” 

“The antidote.” 

“Yeah. It’s a slow-acting virus. Lies dormant for months before showing symptoms, but once it does, you’re dead within twenty-four hours.” 

Steve felt a cold sensation creep down his spine, his mouth going dry. “They’re gonna give the sick people another virus and call it an antidote.” 

“Not just an antidote,” Bucky continued, still in the same strangely monotone voice, “but a vaccine. Once the news of the first virus spreads, the general public will do what it does best: panic. Everyone will get the vaccine, even if they weren’t exposed to the virus in the first place.” 

“So pretty much HYDRA’s creating a bunch of biological time bombs.” Steve scrubbed one gloved fist forcefully across his face, wondering if this situation could get any worse. _Bucky could have been taken back to HYDRA,_ he reminded himself. _We’ve actually been fairly lucky so far given the circumstances._

Bucky turned his head to one side, nodding. Strands of dark hair fell into his slate-colored eyes, but it didn’t hide the expression of devastation creeping across his features. 

“Bucky, this isn’t your fault,” Steve moved forward, putting one hand awkwardly on his friend’s shoulder. He swallowed, trying to find the right words to reassure Number Thirteen. “None of it is. It’s on HYDRA, not you. They were manipulating you.” 

“I know,” Bucky shrugged off Steve’s hand and started walking away from the sled, back in the direction of Rohn. “But it _is_ on me to take what I know and use it to bring HYDRA down. I’ll meet you at the next checkpoint.” 

Steve opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say a word Bucky had taken off into the wilderness, disappearing like mist on a hot summer’s day. 

. . . . . . 

Bucky didn’t look back. He could feel Steve’s gaze on his back, and imagined the look of concern on the blonde’s face. For a moment he felt guilty, but he shrugged it off and squared his shoulders stubbornly. He didn’t have time for emotions. If HYDRA had found him at Rohn, it was highly likely that one of their agents knew where the biological weapon had been stored. Even if they only had a rough idea, the situation was too dangerous to ignore. 

The distant sound of dogs barking alerted Bucky to the proximity of a sled team, and he had barely gotten off the trail when a hunched man clad all in black blew by on the back of a teetering sled. As the man passed, Bucky caught sight of a pair of keen grey eyes and the sharp curve of well-sculpted cheekbones. And then the man was gone, swallowed whole by the wilderness ahead. 

The path back to the cave where he had been reunited with Steve was long and treacherous, rocks slick with ice and snow drifts deceptively deeper than they appeared. Without a team to carry him, his progress was slower than he would have liked, but by nightfall he had managed to reach his destination. The moon was just rising, half obscured by thick grey clouds, and a few brave stars dared show themselves in the ink-black sky. The trees whispered back and forth, branches scraping against one another as the wind began to pick up again. The electric tang of lightning was in the air, warning of what was to come. A second storm, chasing the first blizzard toward the south. 

Bucky’s sled was exactly as he’d left it, reduced to a pile of gear and pieces of broken wood and plastic scattered throughout the forest. Following the fading traces of his own prints in the snow, he made his slow way back toward the place where he’d buried the weapon, kneeling and stripping the glove from his metal hand. Flexing his fingers to regain full dexterity, he began scraping away the top layer of snow and ice, digging down until metal hit plastic. Taking a deep breath to prepare himself, he grasped the edge of the container and pulled as hard as he could. The weapon rose from its icy grave with a grating sound like old sled runners on gravel. Holding it up, he popped open the lid and carefully inspected each vial within to make sure nothing had been broken or damaged. Once he had assured himself that the virus was safely contained, he resealed the container and tucked it under his coat, replacing the glove on his left hand. 

“Well, Number Thirteen. Looks like your usefulness has just run out.” 

Bucky froze at the sound of a familiar voice, ice creeping down his spine as fear and frustration knotted his stomach. “Agent Rodrez,” he half-snarled, “wanna bet you’re the faster draw?” 

Agent Rodrez laughed a throaty, mocking sound. “I’ve already got you covered, Thirteen. I wouldn’t move if I were you.” 

“Good thing you’re not, then,” Bucky replied. He had less than a moment to make his choice, to decide the fate of the world. Thankfully, it wasn’t a hard decision. 

“I would say get on your knees, but you’re already there,” Rodrez laughed again. “Now put her hands up slowly, and hand over the weapon. Put it in the snow and back away. Play things right, and I might even let you live.” 

Bucky grit his teeth, slowly removing the container from his jacket and holding it up in front of him. Lowering it carefully to the ground, he made as if to back away. Rodrez watched him with shimmering grey eyes, his well-sculpted features twisted into a look of calm amusement and triumph. 

“You thought I didn’t see you, Thirteen. Back on the trail after Rohn. You’re losing your touch, in my opinion. And HYDRA has no use for broken machines.” 

“And I’ve got no use for HYDRA,” Bucky said. In an instant he’d crouched low to the ground and seized the weapon in his flesh hand, holding up his metal one to deflect Rodrez’s first shot. The bullet pinged harmlessly off his shoulder, but the second one came dangerously close to his throat. He felt it brush by, sending a shock of adrenaline through him. 

Rodrez was right behind him as he tore through the forest, running faster and harder than he had ever gone in his life. The frozen air caught in his throat and tore at his lungs, but he forced himself to keep going. It was too important that he escape. Too important that he just _stay alive…_

The wilderness ran out abruptly, cut off by a deep and ragged mountain gorge. Bucky turned away as panic set in, mentally berating himself for his lack of weaponry. _If only I had a gun, or even a knife…_

“You’re trapped, Thirteen!” Rodrez appeared out of the gloom of the night, the glint of his gun barely visible in the faint moonlight. “This is a vista. Any way you run, you’re just gonna find more cliff.” 

Bucky clenched his fists and grit his teeth, mind working furiously as he searched for an out. “You shoot me, Rodrez, and you’ll risk destroying the weapon. You willing to take that bet?” 

“I don’t have to,” Rodrez smiled. “Not when I’ve got a dart gun. I can drop you without any risk to your precious viral hostage. ‘sides, you think I’m here alone? Backup is surrounding us as we speak. There’s no way out, Thirteen. Not even for you.” 

_Well, fuck._ Bucky took a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable final option. “Fine. You win,” he said shortly, trying to put as much hatred and disgust into each word as was physically possible. “Come and get your prize.” 

Rodrez’s smile widened. Stepping lightly and keeping his gun trained on the base of Bucky’s throat, he approached Number Thirteen. “Give it over, and there’ll be no trouble for you,” he promised, “slowly, though. Not too fast.” 

For the second time that night, Bucky grudgingly removed the vials from beneath his coat. “Rodrez,” he said, eyes fixed on the HYDRA agent’s gleeful face, “you stupid son of a bitch.” 

And then they were falling, Bucky’s metal fist wrapped around Rodrez’s throat as they toppled together off the edge of the gorge. Air ran icy claws through Bucky’s hair as it screamed in his ears, picking up as the first flakes began to fall from the cloud-obscured sky. He was distantly aware of Rodrez screaming like the wind, the sounds shrill and desperate even with the Winter Soldier’s fingers tight around the Agent’s throat. 

The fall lasted too long, and there was too much time for regret before they hit the ground. Bucky refused to close his eyes as the final seconds flashed by, his gaze trained on the last visible star in the sky. He hated going out like this, without ever getting to say goodbye. But it was the only way. The only way he could keep the world safe. _His_ world safe. 

The frozen river at the bottom of the gorge splintered as the two men struck its surface, the container shattering and releasing the vials into the frigid water. Just before it was all over, Bucky’s last thought was _I should have told him. After all these years, he deserved to known the truth._

The icy waters of the river rose up and swallowed him whole.

_TO BE CONTINUED..._


End file.
